The Haunted Pajamas
by Francis Perry Elliott · English · Gutenberg #33780 · 459,201 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: The Haunted Pajamas
Author: Francis Perry Elliott
Illustrator: Edmund Frederick
Release date: September 20, 2010 [eBook #33780]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/33780
Credits: Produced by Suzanne Shell, Mary Meehan and the Online
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HAUNTED PAJAMAS ***
Produced by Suzanne Shell, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
THE HAUNTED PAJAMAS
BY FRANCIS PERRY ELLIOTT
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
EDMUND FREDERICK
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
Copyright 1911
The Bobbs-Merrill Company
TO
MY WINIFRED
[Illustration]
CONTENTS
I A PRESENT FROM CHINA
II AN OMINOUS DISCOVERY
III I DON THE PAJAMAS
IV JENKINS DECLARES FOR THE WATER WAGON
V THE GIRL FROM RADCLIFFE
VI ARCADIAN SIMPLICITY
VII CONFIDENCES
VIII HER BROTHER JACK
IX AN AMAZING REVELATION
X A NOCTURNAL INTRUSION
XI IRON NERVE
XII I SEND A MAN TO JAIL
XIII FRANCES
XIV "YOU NEVER SAW ME IN BLACK"
XV BILLINGS' SYMPTOMS ALARM ME
XVI AN INSCRIPTION AND A MYSTERY
XVII THE PROFESSOR
XVIII I RECEIVE A SHOCK
XIX THE SPELL OF THE PAJAMAS
XX BILLINGS RAMBLES
XXI THE COLLAPSE OF BILLINGS
XXII MY DARLING IS SLANDERED
XXIII A MESSAGE AND A WARNING
XXIV I SPEAK TO HER FATHER
XXV THE FAMILY BLACK SHEEP
XXVI FLORA
XXVII I RECOVER THE PAJAMAS
XXVIII "IF I EVER FIND A MAN!"
XXIX "BECAUSE YOU--ARE YOU"
XXX THE JUDGE FIXES "FOXY GRANDPA"
XXXI THE DEMON RUM
XXXII I TOUCH BOTTOM
XXXIII UNDER THE PERGOLA
XXXIV THE CUB
XXXV IN THE GLOW OF THE RUBIES
THE HAUNTED PAJAMAS
CHAPTER I
A PRESENT FROM CHINA
It was the first thing I saw that night as I swung into my chambers.
Fact is, for the moment, it was the only thing I saw. Somehow, its
splash of yellow there under the shaded lamp seemed to catch my eye and
hold it.
I screwed my glass tight and examined the thing with interest. Nothing
remarkable; just a tiny, oblong package, bearing curious foreign
markings, its wrapper plainly addressed to me, but--
"By Jove! From China!" I ejaculated.
Somebody in far-off China sending me a present, with duties and charges
prepaid evidently.
What the deuce was it? I shook it without getting any revelation; then I
weighed it in my hand.
The thing was devilish light! In fact, so light that, allowing for
outside wrapper and box, dashed if I could see how there was anything at
all.
Then I had an awful thought: Suppose, by Jove, they had forgotten to
inclose the thing--whatever it was! Jolly tiresome, that, if they had. I
felt devilish annoyed.
Really, awfully provoking to do that sort of thing, you know; and I was
jolly sure now the dashed thing had been wrapped up empty. I wondered
what silly ass I knew in China who would be likely to do a thing like
that. I couldn't think of any one at all I knew in China, so I rang for
Jenkins.
"Anybody I know in China, Jenkins?" I asked. And to help him out, I
added: "Fact is, some chap's sent me a package, you know."
"Name on box, sir, perhaps." Said it offhand, just like that--no trouble
of thinking, dash it all--never even blinked. Just instinct, by Jove!
And there it was, nicely printed in the corner with a pen:
ROLAND MASTERMANN, GOVERNMENT HOUSE, HONG KONG, CHINA
I read it aloud--can't read anything, you know, unless I read it
aloud--and looked at Jenkins inquiringly. But he came right up to the
scratch; just seemed to get it from somewhere right out of the wall over
my head:
"Beg pardon, sir; but think it's that London gentleman--entertained you
at the Carlton when you were over the other side."
Mastermann! By Jove, so it was--I began to remember him now, because I
remembered his dinner, several of them, in fact, during the three years
I had lived over there, acquiring the English accent--manner, you
know--and all that sort of thing!
Mastermann--oh, yes, I had him, now! Jolly rum old boy, but entertaining
and clever--long hair, pink wart on jaw! And, by Jove, I had promised
him--promised him--what the deuce _was_ it I had promised him? Let me
see: he was something or other in the foreign office; yes, I had
that--and tremendously interested in mummies and psychical investigation
and rum sort of things like that, and--
"By Jove!" I ejaculated, as it came to me. "And for that reason he
wanted them to send him out to China."
"Beg pardon, sir," put in Jenkins, "but think you had a letter with a
Chinese postmark last week."
He looked around at my little writing-desk and coughed slightly behind
his hand.
"Was just a-wondering, sir, if it might not be among those you haven't
opened--there are several piles. If I might look, sir--"
I nodded. Fact is, I allow Jenkins much privilege, owing to long
service. Then, you know--oh, dash it, he's so original--so refreshing
and that sort of thing--so surprising. Just as in this case, he thinks
of so many devilishly ingenious, out-of-the-way sort of things!
It was Jenkins' idea that I find out what was in the box by just
_opening_ the dashed thing while he looked for the letter.
Clever that, eh? Well, rather!
So I unsheathed my little pocket manicure knife, cut the strings and
removed the wrapper. Inside was just a little, straw-covered box with a
telescope cover and inside the box, wrapped in tissue, was a tight roll
of bright red silk.
That was all--not another thing but this little silk roll. It was a wad
as thick as three fingers and perhaps twice as long, tied with a bit of
common string, ending in a loose bowknot.
I gripped my glass a bit tighter in my eye and took a long shot at the
thing. But dashed if I could make anything out of it at all. You see,
the string went around it at least three or four times. Such a devilish
secretive way to fix a thing, don't you think?
A queer, sweet, spicy sort of odor swept past me that reminded me of the
atmosphere at Santine's and places in the Metropolitan Art Museum. I sat
down, the better to think it over, turning the little roll in my hand
and trying to think of all the things it might be.
"Looks like it might be a red silk muffler, Jenkins," I exclaimed in
disgust. By Jove, I was never so devilish disappointed in my
life--never--I'm sure of it! If I had been a girl I should have
cried--dash it, I know I should.
I pinched the roll gloomily.
"If it's a red silk muffler, Jenkins, catch me wearing it, that's all!"
I burst out indignantly. "Rotten bad form, if you ask _me_. I'd look
like an out-and-out bounder!"
Then I had a horrible thought:
"Or--or the Salvation Army, dash it!"
Here Jenkins thrust a letter at me. "Perhaps this may explain it, sir,"
he suggested.
Sure enough, it was from Hong Kong, and from that chap, Mastermann. Out
there on special mission for his government, he said. I don't know what
it was--never did know, in fact, for I skipped down to this paragraph,
which I read aloud:
"Every puff of those rare cigars you sent me has but reminded
me that my debt to you is still unpaid."
I read thus far; then I read it again. But I could make nothing of it.
"Cigars--cigars?" I exclaimed, puzzled.
Then I forgot the letter as I stared at Jenkins.
"And what's the matter with _you_?" I demanded.
For I had caught him with his hand over his mouth, obviously trying to
suppress a chuckle. He sobered instantly, but seemed embarrassed for a
reply.
"Oh, I say, you know!" I urged him.
He started to speak, then pulled up. His breath went out in a sort of
sigh. And he just stood there looking at me, and looking kind of scared.
Fact! Perfectly irreproachable service for five years; and now here,
dash it, showing emotion and that sort of thing, just like--well, like
_people_, by Jove! Gad, I don't mind saying I was devilish put out! I
screwed my glass rather severely and he made another go:
"I hope, Mr. Lightnut, sir, you'll try to pardon me, sir, but I--Well,
indeed, sir, the mistake wasn't mine; it was the dealer's fault, you
know, sir."
"Oh!"
I stared, polished my glass and nodded. I even chirped up a smile, but I
didn't utter a word. Dash it, what _was_ there to say? But you mustn't
let _them_ know that, you know. So I just waited, and he squirmed a
little and went on:
"It was too late after he told me about the mistake; and I was--well, I
was afraid to mention it to you, sir."
"Mistake! What mistake?"
He gulped; dashed if I didn't think he was going to choke.
"I--I'm sure, sir, I wouldn't have had such a thing happen for--"
I could stand it no longer.
"Oh, I say! I haven't any idea what you're talking about!"
Jenkins cleared his throat with an effort, his eyes rolling at me
apologetically. When he spoke there was a tremble in his utterance, and
it was rather husky:
"Why, sir," he began in a low tone, "you told me to have your dealer
ship this gentleman, this Mr. Mastermann, a dozen boxes of Paloma
perfectos--your favorite brand, you know, sir--ninety dollars the
hundred."
He paused, his fingers resting tremblingly on the edge of the table.
"I dare say," I yawned presently. "Well, what of it?" I was getting
impatient. By Jove, he was making me downright nervous, don't you know!
Besides, I was so devilish anxious to get on with Mastermann's letter. I
wanted to find out, if possible, what it was the fellow had sent me.
Jenkins breathed hard and leaned toward me. Then he seemed to flunk
again and dropped back. Dashed if I didn't think I heard him groan! But
I stared at him through my glass, and he swallowed hard and went on:
"An error, sir, of the shipping clerk. He--"
With a murmured apology, Jenkins paused to wipe his forehead. I saw that
the perspiration had gathered in great drops. Then he seemed to gather
himself for a resolute effort, his eyes fixing themselves upon me with
the most extraordinary expression--kind of half-frightened,
half-desperate glare--that sort of thing, don't you know. I began to
feel devilish uncomfortable and edged away.
And he made another plunge: "They sent him--"
And, dash me if he didn't stick again! It just looked like he couldn't
get past. But I encouraged him--just like you have to do a horse, you
know--and this time he got over:
"They sent him a dozen boxes of 'Hickey's Pride,' sir, instead!"
He spoke in a low, choking voice and looked me full in the eye--the kind
of look you get when a chap's boxing with you, you know--that sort of
thing.
CHAPTER II
AN OMINOUS DISCOVERY
I was puzzled.
"'Hickey's Pride?'" I repeated thoughtfully. "I don't seem to recall
that one. Do I smoke it often?"
Jenkins seemed to gasp.
"You? Certainly _not_, sir! _Never!_"
And, by Jove, he turned pale! Anyhow, he looked devilish queer as he put
his hands down on the table and bent to whisper:
"Mr. Lightnut, sir--" And the way he dropped his voice and turned his
head to peer around into the corners was just creepy! That's what,
creepy! This, with the glow from the green lampshade on his pale face as
he leaned across the table--oh, it was something ghastly--awful, you
know! It got on my nerves, and I could feel the hair slowly rising on
each side of my part. He bent close, whispering behind his hand, and I
knew he had been eating radishes for dinner:
"It's what's known in the trade, sir, as a 'twofer.'"
"A 'twofer!'" I repeated, puzzled.
"Two for five, sir." Jenkins spoke faintly. "I'm sure I'm ashamed to
mention to a perfect gen--"
"By Jove, _I_ know!" I lifted my finger suddenly. "I know now the kind
you mean--big, fat, greasy-looking ones--the sort Vanderdecker and
Colonel Boylston smoke over at the club." I shook my head. "Too jolly
thick and heavy for me. So they're two for a 'V'--eh? Oh, I
_see_--'twofers!' By Jove!"
A brand new one, this--a ripper! I made up my mind to spring it on the
fellows first chance--that is, if I could remember the jolly thing. I
just looked at Jenkins' solemn face and laughed.
"Oh, I say, Jenkins--hang the expense, you know!" I remonstrated in some
disgust. For this London chap had given me no end of a good time, you
know; and it's such devilish bad form--rotten, I say--haggling about
expense when you want to make a come-back and do the handsome. I was
jolly glad the mistake had happened.
Just here I remembered the letter and went at it again, for I was keen
to find out, if possible, if it _was_ a muffler under the string. So I
fixed my glass and read on:
"Realizing what these cigars are, I have given them, from time
to time, to friends of mine--and others. Really, I don't think
I ever had such unselfish, unalloyed pleasure from anything in
my life. Gave one to a bus driver out Earl's Court way--chap
who had never been known to speak to man, woman or child in
years, and, after he lighted it--well, my word! He opened up
and grew so bally loquacious I had to get off."
"By Jove!" I exclaimed.
I felt real pleased--that kind of fizzy glow--sort of
bubbling-champagney-feeling you get, you know, whenever a friend does
some clever, unexpected thing--like repaying a loan, for instance. Know
about that, because I had it happen to me once. Fact!
"See that, Jenkins?" I said with a little triumph.
I wanted to reassure him, for I could see with half an eye that the poor
fellow was devilish plucked about the expense. And Jenkins certainly
looked regularly bowled over.
I read on:
"Had been trying to get Jorgins, my chief, to send me out here
again to China, but he was ever finding some cold, beastly
evasion. But when your package came to the office, the first
thing I did after I had tried the cigars was to hand the old
iceberg a box with my compliments.
"Five minutes after, he came back, completely thawed out. Fact
is, never saw him so warm toward any one. Asked me if the other
boxes were to be given away outside. Said no; that his was the
only box I could spare; was going to keep 'em all there at the
office and smoke 'em myself. Never saw a man so moved--so
worked up over a little thing. Next day he sent me out here to
China."
"Coals of fire!" I ejaculated admiringly. "Regular out-and-out coals of
fire, by Jove!"
"And so I have been looking about since I have been out here,
trying to find something as rare, unique and full of surprises
for your friends as your cigars have been for mine. I have
found it."
"And devilish handsome of him, Jenkins, eh?" I commented gratefully; and
I looked with renewed interest at the little roll in my hand. Jove, how
I wished, though, he would come to the point and say what it was!
"You know what a curiously upside-down people the Chinese are.
Example, they begin dinner with desert and end with soup; they
drink hot, acid beverages in summer instead of iced ones; they
write from right to left, vertically, while we write from left
to right, horizontally; they mourn in white instead of black,
and they are awfully honest and pay their debts.
"But there is one other point of difference still queerer: they
wear pajamas all day, while we wear them only at night."
Here I yawned. Always hate that heavy, historical, instructive stuff,
you know. If you have to hear it, gives you headache, unless you can
slip off to sleep first.
So I reached the letter up to Jenkins.
"Just run over the rest of it yourself, and see if he says anything
about his present," I said, settling comfortably. Clever idea of mine,
don't you think?
And I was just dropping my head to have a snug little nap--just a little
forty, you know--when, dash me, if I didn't have another idea! Awfully
annoying, time like that.
Mind is so devilish alert, dash it! Always doing things like that; can't
seem to get over it, you know. And this ripping idea that bobbed up now
and got me all roused up was nothing more or less than to untie the
string myself and see what the thing was. See?
"I believe, sir," said Jenkins, looking up, "the gentleman has sent
you--h'm--has sent you--"
"By Jove, a suit of pajamas!" I exclaimed, holding them up.
It was neck and neck, but I beat Jenkins to it, after all!
"Gentleman says, sir," continued Jenkins, studying the letter, "that his
present of a pair of pajamas may seem surprising, but you won't know how
surprising until you have worn them."
"Jolly likely," I admitted, feeling the silk. By Jove, it was the
finest, yet thinnest stuff I ever saw, soft as rose leaves and as filmy
light as a spider's web. Not bad, that, for a comparison, eh? Caught the
idea from a vase of full-blown roses that were beginning to shed their
petals there on the table. And on one of the blossoms was a little brown
spider. Catch the idea? Suggested spider's web, you know.
"They're rather red, sir," Jenkins commented dubiously.
Red? Well, I should say! My! How jolly red they were! We spread them
under the light, and the red seemed to flow all over the table and fall
from the edge. Why, they were as red as--
I tried to think of something they were as red as, but somehow I
couldn't fetch the idea. I thought of red ink and blood and fireworks,
but they didn't seem to be up to them at all. And a big, velvety petal
that dropped from one of the crimson roses just seemed brown beside
them.
And yet, dash it, I knew they reminded me of something, you know; I knew
they _must_.
"They remind me--" I began, and had to pause--idea balked, you know.
"They remind me of--of--Jenkins, what do they remind me of?"
"Of _him_, sir," replied Jenkins promptly.
"Eh?"
"Old Memphis Tuffles, sir," explained Jenkins darkly. "I saw him once in
a opera, and he was that red."
"By Jove!" I said thoughtfully, and fell to watching the little spider.
It was dropping a life-line or something down to the pajamas.
"But they say he ain't always red," Jenkins continued mysteriously. "A
lady as is in the palmistry and card-reading line in Forty-second Street
told me he turned black whenever he got down to business. Do you suppose
that's where they get the idea of what they call black magic, sir?"
I answered absently, for I was wondering whether the little spider was
curious about the jolly red color there below him. And just then
Jenkins' hand went out and swept at the little thread. The spider
dropped and shot into a fold of the pajamas.
"I say! Look out!" I exclaimed as Jenkins made another clutch. "Don't
mash the beast on the silk; you'll ruin it--the silk, I mean!"
"There it goes, sir!" said Jenkins eagerly. "Over by your hand."
"No; by Jove; he's gone into a leg of the pajamas! Here, shake him
out--gently now!"
Jenkins lifted the garment gingerly and lightly shook it. But nothing
came forth.
"Why don't you look in the leg," I said, "and see if you can see it?"
Jenkins peered down one of the silken tubes and forthwith dropped it
with a yell. He jumped back.
"Look out, sir," he cried excitedly; "don't touch 'em! There's a
tarantula in there big as a sand crab, and it's alive."
"A tarantula? Nonsense! We don't have tarantulas in New York," I
protested.
Jenkins gestured violently. "One's there, sir, anyhow! I saw one once on
a bunch of bananas down in South Street. If they jump on you and bite,
you might as well just walk around to the undertaker. A dago told me
so."
I backed nervously from the crumpled crimson pile on the floor.
_Crimson?_
Of course, I knew it was crimson; it must be the shadow of the table
there that made the things so dark--_black_, in fact. But my mind was on
the tarantula; and I was thinking that it must have been wrapped with
the pajamas. Yet I could not understand how this could be, considering
how tightly the things had been rolled.
Anyhow, it was there; and Jenkins pointed excitedly.
"Look, sir! You can see it moving under the silk!"
By Jove, so you could! And the thing seemed nearly as big as a rat. It
was making for the end of the leg. I climbed upon a chair.
"Get a club," I exclaimed, "and smash the thing as it comes out!"
Jenkins rushed out and returned with a brassie.
"Careful now," I warned from the chair. "Don't go and hit the dashed
thing before it gets out, and make a devil of a mess on the silk! There
it is--it's out! No, no--not yet! Wait, until it gets its whole body
out! There now; he's drawing out his last beastly leg. Now--_now_ let
drive!"
And he did, and seemed to hit the thing squarely.
I knelt on the chair and craned over, while Jenkins still held the stick
tightly at the point where the thing had struck.
"Get him?" I queried. "Where is it?"
"That's it, sir," said Jenkins in an odd voice. "It ain't here."
"Why, dash it, I saw you strike the beast, right where you're holding
that club."
"Mr. Lightnut, sir"--Jenkins spoke a little huskily and glanced around
at me queerly--"will you look under the end of this stick and see if you
see what I see?"
I climbed down and examined cautiously.
"Why, by Jove, it's the little spider!" I exclaimed, surprised.
"Exactly, sir; what's left." Jenkins took a deep breath.
"Thank you, sir--it's a great relief," he sighed.
"Eh?"
"I mean, sir, I'm glad I ain't the only one who thought he saw that
other. It's _some_ comfort."
Jenkins spoke gloomily.
"_Thought_ you saw?" I repeated.
But Jenkins only shook his head as he gathered up the remains of the
spider and consigned them to a cuspidor.
"You mean--say, what the devil _do_ you mean?" I asked sharply.
Jenkins straightened with air respectful but solemn.
"Mr. Lightnut, sir," he began gravely, "there's a party lectures on the
street corner every night at nine on the fearful consequences of the
drink habit, and passes around blank pledges to be signed. I'm going to
get one first chance; and if you will accept it, sir--meaning no
offense--I would be proud to get you one, too."
I stared at him aghast.
"Oh, I say, now," I murmured faintly, "you don't think it was that, do
you?"
Jenkins' face was eloquent enough.
"I'm through, sir," he said sadly. "When it comes to seeing things like
that--" He lifted his eyes. "No more for me, sir; my belief is, it's a
warning--yes, sir, that's what, a warning."
I collapsed into a chair.
"By Jove!" I gasped uneasily.
I was awfully put out--annoyed, you know. It was the first time anything
of the kind had ever happened to me. If I started in with tarantulas,
what would I be seeing next?
Jenkins gulped nervously. "Why, sir," he whispered, leaning toward me,
"these pajamas--you see for yourself how red they are--they actually
seemed to lose color when that bug was in 'em."
"Oh, pshaw!" I said contemptuously. "I saw that, too." And I explained
to him about the shadow of the table. He nodded.
"But that only makes it worse, sir," he commented dubiously. "It shows
the 'mental condition,' as they say. You know, we were talking about the
black art--remember, sir?"
I did remember; and also I remembered then we saw the spider. I recalled
that spiders and tarantulas belonged to the same family. Of course
Jenkins' suspicions hit the nail--it must be that--there was no getting
around it--but still--
"By Jove, Jenkins!" I said, trying to go a feeble smile. "I never felt
so fit for a corking stiff highball in my life--never!"
I took a screw on my glass and studied him curiously.
"And I say, you know--better take one yourself!" I added.
CHAPTER III
I DON THE PAJAMAS
"By Jove, Jenkins, they fit like a dream!"
I twisted before the glass and surveyed the pajamas with much
satisfaction. They looked jolly right from every point. Moreover, with
all their easy looseness, there was not an inch too much. They had a
comfortable, personal feel.
"Lucky thing they weren't made originally for some whale like Jack
Billings--eh, Jenkins?" I commented musingly.
Behind his hand Jenkins indulged in what is vulgarly known as a snicker.
"Mr. Billings, sir, he couldn't get one shoulder in 'em, much less
a--h'm--leg," he chuckled. "They'd be in ribbons, sir!"
I yawned sleepily, and Jenkins instantly sobered to attention. He held
his finger over the light switch as I punched a pillow and rolled over
on the mattress.
"All right," I said; "push the jolly thing out." And with a click
darkness fell about me.
"Good night, sir," came Jenkins' voice softly.
"Night," I murmured faintly, and I was off.
Sometime, hours later, I awoke, and with a devilish yearning for a
smoke. It often takes me that way in the night.
I climbed out in the blackness and found my way into the other room. I
remembered exactly where I had dropped my cigarette case when we were
fooling with the pajamas by the table, and I found it without
difficulty.
In the act of stooping for it, my hand clutched the edge of the table
and I felt a spot yield under the pressure of my thumb. It was the
button controlling the bell to Jenkins' room.
"Lucky thing he sleeps like a jolly porpoise," I reflected.
I pushed a wicker arm-chair into the moonlight and breeze by a window,
and pulling a flame to a cigarette, leaned back, feeling jolly comfy.
For the breeze was ripping and delicious, and the delicate silk of the
pajamas flowed in little wavelets all the way from my heels to my neck.
And, thinking of the pajamas, I tried to fix my mind on it that I must
tell Jenkins to have me write that chap, Mastermann, and send him
another lot of those devilish good cigars he liked. I tried to recall
what Jenkins had said was the name of the brand--something deuced
clever, I remembered that much.
I was just about dropping off, when I heard some one hurrying along the
private hall leading from the back. Jenkins himself popped into the
room.
"Did you ring, sir?" he inquired, and advanced quickly.
And then, before I could think about it to reply, he halted suddenly,
almost pitching forward. Then, with a kind of wheezy howl, he sprang to
the wall. Next instant, I was blinking under the dazzling electrolier.
"Here, I say! Shut off that light!" I remonstrated, half blinded.
I heard a swift rush across the rugs, and the next thing I knew I was
roughly jerked from out my chair; strong fingers clutched my throat, and
I found myself glaring into a frightened but resolute face.
"Jen-Jenkins!" I tried to gasp, but only a gurgle came.
I was so taken unawares, I knew it must be some dashed dream. Perhaps
another minute, and I would wake up. But he gripped me tighter and shook
me like a rag.
"Say, who are you?" he hissed. "How did you get in here?"
And then, of course, I knew that he was crazy. Whether he was crazy in a
dream or crazy with me awake, I couldn't guess. It made very little
difference, anyhow, for I knew that in another minute I should be either
dream dead or real dead; and dash me if I could see any odds worth
tossing for in either, you know.
But I don't belong to the athletic club quite for nothing, and have
managed to pick up a few tricks, you know. So with the decision to chuck
the dream theory, I shot my leg forward with a mix-up and twist that
made Jenkins loosen his clutch and stagger backward.
"What's the matter with you?" I gasped, advancing toward him. "Are you
trying to murder me?" But I was so hoarse, the only word that came out
plainly was "murder."
Jenkins uttered a howl. "Help, Mr. Lightnut! Murder!"
"You old fool!" I cried, exasperated. "Come here!"
He was coming. He seized a light chair and swung it behind his head.
Then he rushed me with a shout.
"Oh, Mr. Lightnut!"
"Gone clear off his nut!" was my thought. As he swung the chair, I
ducked low, and man and chair went crashing to the floor. But he was up
again in a jiffy and dancing at me.
"Mr. Lightnut, sir, why don't you help me?"
"Help you--you jolly idiot?" I muttered indignantly. Then my voice
raised: "I've a mind to kill you!"
With a yell, he made a kangaroo jump and swung at me again.
"He says he's going to kill me, Mr. Lightnut!" he panted as I dodged
again. "Help me--wake up, sir!"
Wake up? Wake up, indeed, when I had never been so devilish wide awake
in all my life! I was _sure_ now about that. I moved toward him
cautiously.
"Stop your row!" I cried angrily; "you'll have somebody in. Think I want
the police up here?"
With a glare at me, Jenkins darted past me to the bedroom I had just
left. Its light switch clicked, and then back through the brightened
doorway he sprang and dashed for a wall cabinet at the side. He began
tugging at its little drawer. And suddenly I remembered the revolver
there, an old forty-five from a friend in Denver--and loaded!
My spring to intercept him was quick, but not quick enough. Half-way to
him I pulled up under the compelling argument of the long blue barrel
pointed at my head.
"Here! Look out, you fool--it's loaded!" I warned, backing away to the
window.
Jenkins advanced. "What have you done with him?" he panted hoarsely.
"Where is he?"
"Where's who?" I asked savagely, for I was getting devilish tired of it
all. But for the publicity, I should have yelled from the window.
"Where's Mr. Lightnut?" he demanded.
"Oh, he's all right." I decided to adopt that soothing tone that I had
read somewhere was the proper caper with lunatics.
"Where?" Jenkins insisted, pushing nearer.
And dashed if I knew what to answer; for, if I made a mistake, it might
be serious, by Jove! Perhaps some jocular reply would be safest--might
divert his attention, you know.
The open window gave me an idea.
"Why, do you know," I said pleasantly, "I just chucked him down into the
street."
It sounded like a cannon cracker, that gun! The shower of splintered
glass from the picture between the windows barely missed me. But I never
waited a second--for this last devilish straw was too much, don't you
know, and something had to be done. I leaped for the weapon as it struck
the hardwood floor between us, jerked from Jenkins' hand by the
unfamiliar upward kick. Another instant and I was poking the muzzle into
his side.
"I've just had enough of this, you fool!" I cried impatiently. "Here,
take a good look at me!" I pushed my face closer. "Look at me, I tell
you!"
By Jove, he shuddered! His eyes, wide distended with terror, rolled to
the ceiling.
"I can't," he whispered; "I just can't--anything but that! Only,
please--please don't kill me, too."
"Kill you?" I said, frowning sternly as he gave a furtive glance. "I
certainly will, if you don't take a good look at me!"
He gave a sort of despairing sigh and closed his eyes so tightly the
lashes disappeared. "All right, then," he said sullenly; "you may kill
me!"
The way with these lunatics, I thought. Next thing, he would be begging
and insisting that I kill him. I motioned to the door of my guest-room
and gave him a push.
"In there," I said, "and keep perfectly quiet."
And as he shot inside, I closed the door and locked it. I just had to
take the chance of his hurting himself against the walls and furniture;
I didn't believe he was so crazy he would undertake the six-story leap
to the ground. Listening, I heard something like a sob. Then I caught my
name.
"Poor Mr. Lightnut," came chokingly; "the kindest, gentlest master!" And
then more sobs and gulps.
By Jove, under his insane delusion, the poor beggar was grieving for me;
not thinking of himself at all, you know. I felt my eyes grow a bit
moist, somehow, and all at once my heart went heavy. Thought how long
poor old Jenkins had been with me--ever since I was out of college, you
know--five years--and remembered how devilish faithful and attached he
had always been. Poor old Jenks! It was awful his going off this way! I
recalled how he had taken to seeing things, earlier in the evening, and
had made me see them, too, dash it! One thing I determined: whatever had
to be done with him, he should have the finest of attention.
I knew that I ought to telephone to somebody or something, but dashed if
I had any idea who or where. Oddly enough, not a soul seemed to have
been roused by the pistol shot, but I saw by the little clock that it
was close to three--the hour in a bachelor apartment house when
everybody is asleep, if they're going to sleep at all.
I decided that the best thing to do first was to get into some clothes.
And with this thought I was turning away, when it occurred to me to make
an effort to see if poor Jenkins seemed more rational now or had gone to
sleep.
I tapped upon the door. "Are you asleep?" I asked softly.
A howl of positive terror came back.
"I'm a-keeping quiet," he cried, "but don't let me hear your voice
again, or I'll jump right out of the window."
I shook my head sadly and tiptoed into my room, where I slipped
hurriedly out of the pajamas and into some clothes; then back I went to
the telephone. It was on my little writing-desk close to the door
confining Jenkins.
I lifted the receiver with a sigh.
"Hello, central," I began, responding to the operator. "I say, will you
give me 'information?'"
A loud shout suddenly sounded from behind the closed door, and there
came a frantic double-pounding of fists.
"Mr. Lightnut--Mr. Lightnut!" screamed Jenkins. "Oh, Mr. Lightnut,
you're back--you're alive--I can hear your voice! This is Jenkins, Mr.
Lightnut; yes, sir, Jenkins. They've got me locked in!"
I clapped the receiver on the hook and sprang to the door, unlocking
it. Jenkins almost tumbled into my arms. By Jove, for a second I hung in
the wind, he acted so crazy still; at least, it seemed so just at first.
The fellow threw his arm about my neck and laughed--laughed and cried,
dash it--and just wringing my hands and carrying on--Oh, awful! And even
when I got him into a chair, he just sat there laughing and crying like
a jolly old silly, patting my hand, you know, and wiping his eyes, what
time they were not devouring me.
"Has he gone, sir?" he gasped huskily. "Did he jump from the window?"
But I waved all questions aside.
"After you've had some sleep," I insisted. "Then I'll tell you the whole
jolly story." And I just got him to his room myself, despite his
distress and protests over my attention.
"Thank you, sir, and good night," he said as I left him. And he murmured
placidly, "I guess we're all right now."
But I was not so sure as to _him_, when I viewed the broken chair and
scattered fragments of glass--ominous reminders of the scene through
which I had passed. And so, though I threw the pistol on top of a
bookcase, I spent the rest of the night upon the soft cushions of my big
divan.
CHAPTER IV
JENKINS DECLARES FOR THE WATER WAGON
"But this savage-looking Chinaman that you saw, Jenkins--how was he
dressed?" I adopted a careless tone of inquiry.
It was high noon, and I was toying with an after luncheon, or rather
after breakfast, cigar.
Jenkins' head shook dubiously. "I just remember something blackish. My,
sir, I didn't have time to notice nothing like clothes!"
His tone conveyed aggrieved protest. He went on:
"Just as I'm telling you, sir, I saw some one sitting there by the
window and walked toward him, thinking it was you. Then, all of a
sudden, I see his awful face a scowling at me there in the moonlight."
"And he was smoking, you say?"
Jenkins sniffed indignantly. "Free and easy as a lord, sir! He held a
long stick to his ugly mouth, and smoke was curling out of a little bowl
near the end."
"Oh, opium pipe, eh?"
"Likely, sir," agreed Jenkins; "but I never saw one."
By Jove, I had my own opinion about that! I knew he _must_ have seen one
before; but I just went on questioning, to gain time, you know, and
wondering all the while how I should ever be able to break the truth to
the poor fellow.
"Tell me again what he was like," I said. "How did you know he was a
Chinaman?"
"Why, by his long black pigtail, sir, and his onery color. But I never
saw no Chinaman as ugly as this one--no sir. Oh, he was just too awful
horrid to look at, sir. His forehead sloped away back, or maybe the
front part of his head being all shaved made it look that way. And the
skin about his eyes was painted white with red streaks shooting around
like rays of light."
"No beard or mustache, I suppose?" I suggested, feeling my own
smooth-shaven face. Jenkins' reply was a surprise:
"Yes, sir; there were long black kind of rat tails that dropped down
from the sides of his mouth. And then his neck--ugh--all thick with
woolly hair."
"Oh, it was, eh?" I said drily, thinking of the long red stripe that my
collar concealed. "I suppose you felt this, eh, when you jumped at his
throat?"
Jenkins rubbed his chin with a puzzled air.
"Why, that's uncommon queer, sir; but now that you remind me, I do
remember that his neck felt perfectly smooth--and it wasn't so big,
either. Why, I should say it felt just about like yours would, sir."
[Illustration]
I eyed him ruefully.
"By Jove, I don't doubt it a minute!" I commented with some disgust.
"See here, Jenkins, I suppose you've been to the Chinese theater down in
Doyers Street, eh?"
For I had been down there with slumming parties, and I remembered the
hideous sorcerers, fierce warriors and kings the Chinks represent in
their interminable plays. And the facial make-up described by Jenkins
tallied in a way with some I recalled from these ancient, semi-mythical
plays.
But at my question, Jenkins' lip curled a little; dash me, but he looked
almost insulted.
"I should say not, sir," he said with a sniff; "you don't catch me going
down in them parts!" He added quickly: "Meaning no offense, sir."
"Sure?" I questioned sharply.
"Never, sir!" Jenkins' earnestness was unmistakable. But of course I
knew the poor fellow had forgotten all about it.
"One of the jolly rum things that goes along with his affliction," I
reflected sadly. "A month from now the poor beggar will be swearing he
never saw me in his life." And how the devil was I going to break the
truth to him? I sighed perplexedly. "Well, go on with your yarn," I said
irresolutely. "You were telling, when I interrupted, about rushing into
my bedroom."
"Yes, sir," he resumed with animation. "And when I didn't find you, I
was just frantic, for I didn't know you had gone out, sir--never
thought of that; I went for the ugly monster with the big pistol there
in the cabinet--which, by the way, sir, the low down villain stole when
he locked me up and lit out."
I had an inspiration.
"I see," I broke in carelessly; "and then you demanded to know where I
was--that it? Then you backed him to that window, and he told you he had
chucked me into the street--whereupon you tried to blow off his head and
knocked the jolly daylights out of the lady with the fencing foil."
Jenkins, his mouth agape, viewed me with distended eyes.
"I didn't tell you that, sir," he faltered. "How--"
"And when you dropped the weapon," I went on, "this chap collared it,
jabbed the beastly thing into you, and told you to look at him. And by
Jove you wouldn't!"
Jenkins groaned slightly. The apologetic cough with which he strove to
mantle the sound was dry and spiritless.
"No, sir; it seemed easier to die, sir," he murmured--"what with him
grinning like a fiend and his long teeth a-sticking out over his
lip--ugh!" Then he added wonderingly: "But what gets me is how you
should know, sir."
I looked at him gravely.
"Jenkins," I said gently, "I know, because it so happens I was here all
the time."
His eyes bulged incredulously.
"You, sir? You mean in this room?"
I nodded slowly. "I mean right in this room--I was a witness of the
whole thing."
Jenkins just gulped. I motioned to a chair.
"You may sit down, Jenkins, my poor fellow," I said compassionately. I
poured out some whisky and gave it to him.
"Yes, yes; I want you to drink that," I insisted as he took it
hesitatingly. "You will need it. Drink every drop of it."
And I watched him do it. For somehow the poor devil seemed to be growing
paler every minute, and I was afraid the shock of what I was going to
say would send him into a swoon.
Jenkins replaced the empty glass with a positively trembling hand. By
Jove, his face turned a kind of asparagus yellow.
It alarmed me a little, for I felt apprehensive that perhaps it was time
for him to have another spell, you know. Of course, I knew that the
devilishly adroit, tactful way I was breaking it to him wouldn't disturb
the peace of a baby. Some people would have gone about the thing in some
deuced abrupt way, don't you know, and alarmed him. I didn't want to do
that--in fact, I took pains to tell him so at the start.
"I don't want to frighten you, my poor fellow," I said, leaning toward
him and speaking in a low, earnest voice--just that way, you know--no
excitement. "You mustn't let anything I say frighten you badly about
yourself."
"No, sir. Thank you, sir." But I could hardly hear him.
I waited a moment, eying him steadily--just doing it all in that calm
way, you know--and then:
"You must brace yourself for a great shock, my poor Jenkins," I said
soothingly. And then I thought I had best hurry on, for I could tell by
the way his eyes rolled and the blue color of his lips that probably I
was just in time to head off another attack. And then I told him all.
"And here," I concluded, "are the marks of your fingers under my collar,
and the pistol is on top of the bookcase."
Jenkins just sat there, kind of huddled up, you know, and his face as
white as the what-you-call-it snow. Didn't seem able to say a word. By
Jove, it was too much for me; my heart just went out to him.
"It's all right, Jenkins," I said kindly, and I patted his knee.
"Doesn't make a jolly bit of difference to me, personally. Just told you
because I thought you ought to know. You just go right along and
continue your duties, so far as I am concerned."
Jenkins' hand slipped along his knee and ventured to touch mine timidly.
He rose heavily.
"Mr. Lightnut, sir," he said huskily, "if you're not going to need me
very much, could I be excused for a while to-night?"
"By Jove, yes, Jenkins! Go out and enjoy the evening; it will do you
good. Stay as long as you like, dash it! You know I dine to-night at the
club. Go to a roof garden and get some fresh air."
A toss of the head broke Jenkins' calm; his fist struck his palm.
"It ain't that, sir," he exclaimed. "I don't want no fresh air, but I do
want fresh resolution and a fresh start. I'm going to find _him_."
"Him!" I was startled. Dash me, I half thought he meant the Chinaman.
"Him, sir; that temperance lecturer, I mean. I'm going to get out a
paper against that old enemy there!" And he shook his fist at the whisky
decanter.
CHAPTER V
THE GIRL FROM RADCLIFFE
"Long distance call from Mr. Billings, sir," said Jenkins, lifting the
receiver.
By Jove, he had just caught me as I was about to leave.
"Hello! That you, Lightnut?" came his voice. "Say, old chap, you
remember you said you wouldn't mind putting up the kid overnight on the
way home from college. Remember? Wants to rest over and come up the
river on the day line."
Yes, I remembered, and said so.
"All right, then; it's to-night. Be there about nine from Boston. Don't
go to any trouble, now, nor alter any plans. The kid will probably be
dead tired and off to bed before you get home from your dinner."
"That's all right, old chap; Jenkins will look after the young one."
I heard Billings chuckle--I remembered that chuckle afterward.
"Not much of the young one there. Eighteen, you know. Never off to
school, though, until last year--and by George, it was time! Between my
mother and my sister the kid was being absolutely ruined--petted,
mollycoddled, and was getting soft and silly--oh, something to make you
sick. Well, so much obliged, Dicky. You know what these hotels are.
Good-by."
I explained to Jenkins. "All right, sir," he said. "I won't go out until
after nine. It'll be time enough."
And so I went off. I returned early, about ten, and sat reading. Jenkins
was still away, and the door of my guest room was open.
"Good evening!"
The voice behind me was soft, musical, delicious.
I whirled about, and there, within the door, leaning against the frame,
was the most beautiful creature I ever saw in all my life.
A girl! But oh, by Jove, _such_ a girl! A lovely, rosy blonde, dash it!
Golden-haired angel--long, droopy kind of lashes, don't you know--eyes
like dreamy sapphire seas--oh, that sort of thing--a peach!
The leap that brought me to my feet sent my chair thudding backward.
"Why--er--good evening," I managed to stammer. Just managed, you know,
for, give you my word, I never was so bowled over in my life--never! And
on the instant I guessed what it meant. The "kid" that Billings referred
to wasn't a kid brother at all, but was a kid sister--girl, by Jove!
"Are you busy?" I saw the flash of her perfect little teeth as her lips
parted in a smile. "If not, may I talk to you a while?"
I mumbled something designed to be pleasant--dash me if I know what--and
managed to summon sense enough to lift toward her a wicker arm-chair.
Then I dashed into my bedroom to chuck the smoking-jacket and get into a
coat. And all the while I was thinking harder than I ever had thought it
possible.
Just the thing to have expected of an ass like Billings--a fellow with
no sense of the proprieties! His kind of mind had never got any further
than the fact that I had a guest-room and a quiet apartment. The further
fact that it was in a bachelor apartment house and I a bachelor--and not
yet out of my twenties, dash it--would never have presented itself to a
chump like Billings as having any bearing on the matter.
"Of course, I must get right over to the club and leave her in
possession--it's the only thing left to do." This was my thought as I
slipped into my coat and gave my hair a touch--just a touch, don't you
know. The thing to do was to carry it off as naturally as possible for a
few minutes, and then slip away. Probably she hadn't counted upon my
being in town at all--had taken it for granted it was some sort of
family apartment--with housekeeper, servant maids, all that sort of
thing.
"Never mind," I thought, as I kicked off my half-shoes and jerked on the
first things at hand. "Thing to do now is to keep that child's mind
from being distressed. She'll have a good sleep and get off early in the
morning on the Albany boat. Don't suppose she'd understand,
anyhow--sweet, innocent, unsophisticated thing like that. What a fool
Billings is!"
And I jammed in savagely the turquoise matrix pin with which I was
replacing the pearl, because it went better with my tie.
"Now, just a few minutes of conversation to put her at her ease," I
reflected, "and then I'm off. I'll get the janitor's wife to come up and
stay near her."
And I dashed back, murmuring some jolly rubbish of apology. And then I
just brought up speechless--almost fell over backward. For as she stood
there under the light, I saw that what I had taken for a dress of black
silk was not a dress at all, but a suit of pajamas--black, filmy
pajamas, whose loose elegance concealed but could not wholly deny the
goddess-like figure within.
"I'd have known you anywhere, Mr. Lightnut." And then I found that we
were shaking hands, my fingers crushed in a grasp I never could have
thought possible from that tiny hand. "From hearing Jack talk, your name
is a sort of household word in the Billings family."
I mumbled something jolly idiotic--some acknowledgment. But I was pink
about the ears, and I knew it, while she was cool and serene as a lily
of the what-you-call-it, don't you know. I was trying not to see the
pajamas, trying to pretend not to notice them, but dashed if I didn't
only make it worse!
For she looked down at herself with a laugh--rather an embarrassed
laugh, I thought; and her little shrug and glance directed attention to
her attire.
"I see you're looking at the pajamas," she said smiling.
And her eyes looked at me through those drooping lashes--oh, such a way!
"Oh, no--I assure--certainly not," I stammered hastily. Dash it, I never
was so rebuked and mortified in all my life. What an ass I had been to
seem to notice at all!
She looked troubled. "Say, do you mind my wearing them?" she inquired.
"I? Certainly not--well, I should say not!" I retorted, almost with
indignation.
"Sure?" By Jove, what ripping eyes she had!
"Of course not!" emphatically.
Her sunny head nodded satisfaction. "That's all right, then. I was
afraid you wouldn't like it--afraid you would think I was acting a
little _free_. But your man Jenkins--isn't that his name?--said he
thought you would _like_ for me to wear them."
I gasped.
"Jen--what's _that_?" I was amazed, indignant at Jenkins' effrontery.
"He--he suggested that you wear--er--these?"
She nodded, her glorious eyes shining wistfully.
"You see, I went to a frat dance last night in Cambridge," she
explained; "and in the hurry this morning, somehow, one of my bags--a
suit-case--was left behind. And when I got here to-night and began
piling the things out of my other bag--well, I saw I was up a tree. Not
a thing to slip into, you know--not so much as a dressing-gown or even a
bathrobe. Then your man saved my life--suggested these pajamas. See?"
"Oh, I see!"
I said so; but, dash it, I wasn't sure I did, for I knew so devilish
little about girls. But I got hold of this much: I understood that this
delicately reared creature had missed the restfulness and luxury of a
shift to some sort of dressing-robe after her day of travel. Probably
one of those ribbony, pinky-white fripperies one sees in the windows of
the Avenue shops, rosy, foamy dreams like the--well, like the crest of a
soda cocktail, don't you know. And the pajamas had been adopted as a
comfortable makeshift.
By Jove! And here she was sitting, calmly telling me all about it--just
as she might to Jack--never thinking a thing about it! My, how charming,
how innocent she was! But, dash it, that was the reason she was so
beautiful--of course, that was it--and I had never seen anybody like her
in all the world before. I knew jolly well I never should again, either.
But I knew I ought to go--and at once.
"I must cut along now," I thought; "infernal shame to be taking
advantage of her this way!" And then I thought I would just wait a wee
minute longer.
Just then she turned toward me, her elbow on the arm of the wicker
chair, her dainty, manicured finger-tips supporting her chin.
"You know, Mr. Lightnut, I wasn't sure you would remember me at all,"
she said. "I was such a kid when you saw me last."
"Oh, yes," I said, trying to recall the rather hoydenish children I had
seen on the motor trip to Billings' home five years before. "I remember
you were quite a little girl--weren't you?"
I thought her face darkened a little; then her smile flashed through,
like sunshine through a cloud. Her laugh came on top, like the mellow
ripple of a tiny brook--that sort of thing--oh, you know!
"Oh, I say now, Mr. Lightnut, cut out the josh," she remonstrated; and I
thought she grew a little red. "No more for mine those sissy, girlie
ways--I've got well over all of that!"
She tossed one knee over the other and threw herself back in the chair.
She seemed a little piqued. She went on:
"I just tell you what--there's nothing like a couple of years off at
college for toughening you! Gets all those mamma's baby ways out of you,
you bet your life, and all the slushiness you get from trying to be like
your sisters. Shucks!"
I caught my breath. Of course, she had no idea how it sounded--this sort
of talk; it was just her innocent frankness, her--what d'ye call
it?--her _ingenuousness_--dash it!
She continued musingly: "Gee, but I was soft when I first went away--a
regular pie-faced angel-child!" Her voice had in it a sneer. Then she
straightened up, whirled her chair facing me, and gave me a sounding
slap on the knee. "Say, maybe the fellows I met didn't educate that out
of me mighty quick! Well, I reckon yes!" And she nodded, eying me
sidewise, her pretty chin in the air.
But, dash me, I was so aghast I couldn't get out a word. Just sat there
batting at her and turning hot and cold by turns. Came devilish near
losing consciousness, by Jove, that's what!
Of course, I knew she didn't know what she was talking about. Hadn't any
sisters myself, don't you know, and never had learned much about other
fellows' sisters; but, dash it, I knew something about _faces_, and I
would have staked my life on hers. You can nearly always tell, you know.
But, anyhow, I thought I had better go now.
I got up. "I say, you want to just make yourself at home," I said. "And
if you don't mind, I'll see you at the boat in the morning."
She stood up, too, looking rather surprised. "You're not going away?"
"Oh, no; not out of town." I thought that was what she meant. I added:
"And as I go out, I'll stop down-stairs and have some one come up and
stay with you."
She dropped to the arm of the chair, her pretty face showing dismay.
"Oh, but see here! I'm running you off--I know I am. Say, Mr. Lightnut,
I don't want to do that. I thought sure you were going to be here.
Brother insisted you would be."
Brother! Nice brother, indeed, for her--poor little thing!
"Oh, you'll be all right," I said reassuringly. "I'm just going over to
the club, don't you know--not far away."
She came right up to me and placed a hand on each shoulder.
"Honest Injun, now," she said--and her smile was ravishing. "Honest,
now, Mr. Lightnut, you're going just because I'm here. Say now, own up!"
And, dash it, there was nothing to do but admit it.
"All right," she said; and I thought her eyes flashed a little. "Then I
go to a hotel--that's all!"
"A hotel! Why, you can't do that--oh, I say!"
"Why can't I?" She was downright angry--I could see it; and how
distractingly lovely she was with that flame in her cheeks!
But she was just a child--an innocent little child; and how the deuce
could I ever make her understand?
I stammered: "Why--er--not in New York, you know. They won't take a
lady in at this time of night. They--"
She snapped her fingers. "Oh, I say, Mr. Lightnut, play easier on that
girlie and lady pedal; cook up a fresh gag! I tell you, I've put all
that behind me. Say, wait till you've known me a little, and I'll bet a
purse you never call _me_ a lady again! Lady! Say, that's _funny_!"
And it certainly seemed to strike her sense of humor. She gave me a
sudden punch in the side that fairly left me breathless, and her
laughter rang out birdlike, joyous. Of a sudden I felt devilish awkward
and foolish.
"Oh, _please_ stop stringing me, Mr. Lightnut--don't treat me like a
kid. I want to get acquainted." Then her bright face sobered. "Say, was
that on the level--that about your going to leave me? See here, I'm not
bothering you, am I, Mr. Lightnut?"
"Bothering me!" I ejaculated. "Bothering _me_? I should say not!"
I think I must have said it heartily and convincingly, don't you know,
for her lovely face looked pleased.
"Because if I am," she said earnestly, "I'll fade away into my own
little room there." Her glance ranged toward her door. "It's sure some
swell, that room."
"So jolly glad you like it," I said.
"Well, I should say!" Then her beautiful eyes looked at me full.
"You know, I didn't expect this--I mean having a room all to myself.
Never."
And then, while I gasped, she went on, sweetly and calmly:
"Why, Mr. Lightnut, Brother Jack would throw seventeen thousand fits if
I went to a hotel, because--" She laughed deliciously. "Well, I promised
him that if he would let me come home by New York I would stay right
here with you and behave myself."
"Behave yourself!" I echoed indignantly. "Why, look here, do you mean to
say Jack Billings--your own brother, you know--thought you
wouldn't--er,--do that at a hotel?"
"_Thought?_" Her laugh this time was explosive. "No, he never thought
it; he _knew_ I wouldn't! He knew I would be tearing around all night
with the boys--_that's_ what!"
And dash me, if she didn't throw herself back with a kind of swagger, by
Jove!
"Why, you--you wouldn't do such a thing!" I uttered faintly.
"Wouldn't I?" She straightened suddenly, and her lovely blue eyes
narrowed at me. "Say, Mr. Lightnut, I don't want you to get me sized up
wrong. I'm none of your little waxy gardenias--not much! When I'm in New
York, it's the bright lights and the Great White Way for mine--yes, sir,
every time!"
And she gave me a blow on the shoulder that was like a stroke from a
man's arm. It sent me down into my chair.
"If you don't believe me," she added, her face shining with excitement,
"just you ask Jack about last summer when I came through--about that joy
ride to Coney with three Columbia fellows, and how we got pinched. Oh,
mamma, but didn't Jack swear at me!"
I heard a noise by the door. Jenkins stood there, his eyes sticking out
like hard boiled eggs.
"I--I'm back, sir," he said rather falteringly. "Beg pardon, sir; just
thought you'd want to know. I didn't know you--h'm!" And with an odd
look and a little cough Jenkins slipped away. But I scarcely noticed him
at all.
Poor misguided girl!
My brain was buzzing like a devilish hive of bees, don't you know. By
Jove, this was something _awful_!
And yet--and yet--Her frank, sweet face met mine with a clear light that
there was no mistaking. There was no going behind it--she was a
thoroughbred, a queen--a _lady_, dash it! I _knew_ it! And I just
settled on that, and was ready to die right then and there if anybody
dared to dispute it. I didn't care a jolly hang how she talked; it was
just nothing--just the demoralizing swagger of a little boarding-school
girl trying to show off like her brothers. And her language? Why, just
the devilish, natural result of having a coarse, slangy brute like
Billings for a brother. Poor little girl! It was a beastly shame.
She was watching me curiously, smilingly, as she sat there, her
devilishly pretty mouth puckered into a cherry as she softly whistled
and drummed her shining nails upon the chair arm.
"I'm afraid I've shocked you," she said. "Jack says you're so good."
Dash it, somehow I felt humiliated! She said it in a way that made me
feel like a silly ass, you know.
But she wasn't thinking about me any more. Her eye fell on the tabouret,
and her little hand stretched toward it.
"May I?" she said with an arch inquiring glance. "Your cigarettes look
good to me. I emptied my case an hour ago."
And I proffered them with a show of alacrity. "Pray, pardon me," I said.
"I--I never thought of you smoking." A chuckle came through the tiny
teeth grasping the cigarette. "Thought I was too goody-goody, eh?"
I stammered something--dashed if I know what--and blinked a little
gloomily as she drew a brisk fire from the flame I tendered.
Odd thing, by Jove; here I had been going to dinners, world without end,
where fellows' wives and girls and sisters smoked cigarettes, and I
never had thought a thing about it. But now, somehow, I didn't like it
for _her_. Sort of thing well enough for other chaps' girls and
sisters, you know, but--well, this was _different_, by Jove! Devilish
queer thing, that, what a lot of things seem the caper for them that we
don't like for "our own," eh?
And yet--oh, I say, she certainly did look fetching about it--downright
bewitching, you know! I think maybe it was because she didn't fumble the
thing as if she was afraid of it--as if it was just a red hot coal and
going to burn her. Most of them do, you know. No, this girl really
seemed to enjoy it. Inhaled the whole thing at three draws and reached
for another.
"Do--er--you smoke much?" I ventured anxiously. "Cigarettes, you know?"
She pulled a sparkling half-inch as she shook her little head. I felt
awfully relieved. "Not for me," she remarked carelessly. "I prefer a
pipe."
"_Pipe!_" I repeated feebly.
The golden head inclined. "Bet you! Good old, well-seasoned brier for
mine--well-caked and a little strong." Puff-puff. "Oh, damn your patent
sanitary pipes, I say!"
And as backward I collapsed upon the cushions, she threw her leg over
the arm of her chair and shot two long cones of smoke from her dainty
nostrils.
CHAPTER VI
ARCADIAN SIMPLICITY
A moment later I had another shock.
"I don't blame you for looking at me so hard," she said, rubbing her
chin and looking, I thought, a little confused. "For did you ever see a
face like mine?"
"I--I never did!" I said stammeringly, for, by Jove, the question was so
unexpected; but I knew I said it earnestly and with conviction in every
word.
She nodded. "Never got a chance to shave, you know--caught the train by
such a margin--and my kit's in that other bag. Guess I'll have to impose
on you in the morning for one of your razors."
I stared at her in horror.
"Shave? You don't shave?" I protested blankly.
"Myself, you mean? Have to; I haven't got a man to do it for me." She
seemed to sigh. "Not old enough yet to have a man, Jack says."
And just here her attention seemed to center on my cellarette over in
the corner.
"Gee, but it's warm to-night, isn't it?" she remarked absently.
And there was nothing to do but take the hint or leave it; and after
all, she was a guest, you know!
"Perhaps you will permit me to offer you some refreshment," I suggested,
rising. I knew it sounded devilish stiff; and I knew, moreover, that I
looked like a jolly muff, in fact.
"Perhaps I will," she chuckled. "Say, don't urge me too hard, Mr.
Lightnut; you might embarrass me."
I did not want to embarrass her. "I thought perhaps a lemon soda would
refresh you," I explained. "Or, if you will allow me, I will have
Jenkins make you one of his famous seltzer lemonades. Perhaps, though,
you would prefer just a plain--"
I halted in confusion, for she was laughing at me.
"A plain cup of tea," she gurgled, "or a _creme de menthe_!" And then
her laughter burst deliciously. "Say, do you know, honestly, I'm only
just getting on to that dry humor of yours. You've had me fooled. You do
it with such a serious face, you know. Say, it's _great_!"
I tried to smile, but I knew it was a devilish sickly go--the more so,
because just at that moment her slender fingers discarded the remnant of
her last cigarette and reached for a cigar. Another instant, and she had
deftly clipped and lighted it.
I decided I wouldn't ring for Jenkins.
I felt ashamed as I looked in the cellarette, and wondered what the
deuce I should offer her. Couldn't think of anything I had ever heard of
boarding-school girls going in for except ice-cream soda; and, dash it,
I didn't have any ice-cream soda. Nearest thing would be a little
seltzer and ginger ale. That would do.
"Oh, I say, I'm going to make you a highball," I said, trying to assume
a frisky, jocular air.
Her voice lifted in alarm. "Nay, nay, Clarence--not for me!" she urged
hastily.
"But it's only--"
"No fizzy adulterations in mine--not on your life." She followed me
across the room. "Just give me the straight, pure goods--anything, just
so it's whisky."
And before I could say a word--if, indeed, I could have said a word--she
had selected a decanter of Scotch, and with cigar tilted upward in her
tender mouth, was absorbingly pouring a shining stream of the amber
fluid.
To see the slow curving of that delicately molded wrist, the challenging
flash of the saucy eyes of blue, by Jove, it made me just forget all
about what she was doing till the fluid ran over the brim. And then,
before I could intercept her, she had lightly gestured her glass to
mine, and in a flash the stuff was gone.
Gone! A full whisky glass; and I recalled with a shiver of horror that
it was very high proof liquor--something I seldom touched myself, but
kept on hand for certain of my friends.
"I say, you know!" I gasped in consternation.
"I'm awfully afraid that will--er--will--" I gulped wordlessly.
The coral lips curved scornfully.
"Get _me_ jingled?" She looked as she might have if I had insulted her.
"Maybe so in those girlie-girlie days you were trying to josh me about,
but not since these two years I've been at college." She shook her
lovely, bright head, and following a long enjoyable pull at the cigar,
projected five perfect rings at a frescoed cherub in the ceiling. The
exquisite eyes softened dreamily as under the spell of some pleasing
thought--some tender reminiscence.
"Why, do you know," she said, looking at me earnestly, "when I was home
for the holidays--" Then she paused. "Don't tell Brother Jack I told you
this--will you, Mr. Lightnut? He's so sensitive about it."
"Certainly not," I said feelingly.
I thought the wistful face brightened.
"Well, when I was home, then, I put Brother Jack under the table two
nights running; and you know that's going some!"
And smiling proudly, she poured out another! But not any more, for I put
away the decanter.
My brain was reeling, as they say in books; dash it, I was almost sick.
Poor, poor little girl! And nobody to remonstrate with her. What a
shame--what a shame!
By Jove, I wondered if she would listen to me! I fixed my glass
resolutely as we resumed our seats, and bent toward her earnestly.
"May I say something very seriously, Miss Billings?" I began nervously.
"Without offense, you know--"
But she was off in a fit of chuckling. Most girls giggled, I had always
heard, but she chuckled. Somehow, I liked it less than anything she did;
it sounded so devilish ghastly, you know. And then it was so awfully
embarrassing--oh, awfully. If you've never tried to remonstrate with a
girl about her vicious habits and had her chuckle, you just can't
imagine! I felt my cheeks flushing jolly red and looked down, and then I
had to look somewhere else quickly, for I seemed to be staring rudely at
the ends of the pajamas, where her feet, as the poet chap says, "like
little mice, stole in and out--" only, in this case, they were thrust
into bedroom slippers, that looked oddly like a pair of my own--but
miles and miles smaller.
"Say, do you know," she was chortling, "the way you do get off that
Willie boy sort of talk--oh!" And she placed her hand to her side as she
laughed. "I can see how Jack thinks you're the greatest ever, Mr.
Lightnut."
She leaned forward eagerly.
"Look here, I do _wish_ you would let me call you 'Dicky.'"
"Oh, I say--will you?" exploded from my mouth.
"_Will_ I?" Her look made my blood leap. "You just watch me--_Dicky_!
Oh, say, this is great; maybe it won't take a fall out of old
Jack--always bragging that you allow only two or three to call you
that."
"I hope you will always call me Dicky," I said--and said it very softly.
By Jove, I could hardly keep from taking her hand!
"You bet I think it's awfully good of you, Lightnut--I mean, Dicky."
Then her face grew pensive. "Say, do you know, I need a friend like
you--just now, I mean--oh, worst kind."
"Do you?" I said eagerly, and hitched nearer. She proceeded:
"Haven't you had things sometimes you wanted to talk about to
somebody--well, things you couldn't just tell to your brother or
sisters--oh, nor even your room-mate? _You_ understand."
I wasn't sure that I did, for she was blushing furiously, and in her
eyes was an appeal.
By Jove, some jolly love affair, I guessed suddenly. My heart just sank
like a lump of what's-its-name, but my whole soul went out in sympathy
for her. I made up my mind, then and there, to put myself aside.
"Devilish glad--I mean delighted to have you tell me anything," I
murmured rather weakly; "but--er--I should think your mother--"
"The mater--tell her!" Her hand lifted. "She'd guy the life out of me!
Besides, she's in Europe." She paced to the window and back.
I protested indignantly: "I don't see how any mother--"
"Aw, forget it!" she broke in, and I winced again at slang from those
sweet lips. "No, sir; I'm going to unload the whole thing on _you_, or
nobody."
And, by Jove, the next thing I knew she had perched on the broad arm of
the Morris chair in which I sat, her arm resting lightly above my
shoulders.
"Here's what I want to know about," I heard her sigh. "When you're
engaged to one person and meet another you like better, how are you
going to--well, chuck it with the first, you know--and still do the
square thing? There, that's what's hit me, Dicky; and I'm up against it
for fair!" Her hand gently patted my shoulder. "I'm telling you, old
chap, because I know you'll understand--because I like you better than
any man I ever saw--that's right!"
I was just afraid to move! Afraid she'd stop; afraid she'd go on. And
all the while I was feeling happier than I ever had in all my
life--happier than I ever knew people could be, you know. I never
thought her bold--dash it, no--knew it was just her adorable, delicious,
Arcadian simplicity, by Jove! That explained it, just as it explained to
me all her other unconventionality.
"So now it's up to you," she said, "and I want to know what's the
answer."
The answer!
And how could I give her any answer? No, by Jove, I knew jolly well I
couldn't take advantage of such circumstances--of her artless
confession; knew devilish well it wouldn't do, you know. Might reproach
me in years to come; and then--and then, there was Billings!
So I just contented myself with looking up smilingly, but it was
hard--awfully, awfully hard, dash it--and I just felt like a jolly
cad--or fool. Couldn't tell which.
CHAPTER VII
CONFIDENCES
This beautiful creature had proposed to me!
By Jove, that's what it amounted to practically; and now, as she said,
it was up to me. Yet I couldn't say a word!
"Well, what must I do about the other one?" she insisted.
The question reminded me of the entanglement to which her frank
simplicity had confessed. And she expected me, of all others, to tell
her what to do! I looked up into the radiant, crimsoned face as she bent
forward slightly, her lips parted, her eyes eager--expectant. She was
hanging upon my reply.
I coughed slightly. "That question is hardly fair, you know," I said
meaningly. "You see, it hits me rather personally."
"Oh!" she said.
I nodded and tried to find her hand as I looked down.
"So _that's_ where the shoe pinches!" And she whistled thoughtfully.
And just then my upward reaching hand found hers. And yet no, it
couldn't be her hand, either; it felt like the crash cover of the
cushion--rough and fibrous. And yet, by Jove, it _was_ a hand, for it
gave mine a grip that almost broke my fingers and then dropped them. By
the time I looked up, I saw only her little palm resting upward on her
knee.
It was funny; but I had other things to think about than puzzles.
She sighed. "Well, I'm the one that can feel for you, Dicky." Here the
sigh lifted and her laugh pealed like a chime of silver bells. "I guess
Brother Jack doesn't know as much about your affairs as he thinks, does
he--eh? Why, he told me you were more afraid of a girl than of a mad
dog."
And a slapping grip fell on my shoulder that made me tingle from head to
toe. And yet I wished she wouldn't do that; if she did it again, I
should just lose my head--I knew I should.
But here she rose, stretched her arms, and dropped into the wicker
arm-chair. She hitched it nearer to me.
"You see, it's like this," she began, assuming a confidential air. "You
know my sister's up at school at Cambridge, too."
"At Radcliffe College--yes." I nodded.
"Why, yes. Well, it's her room-mate!"
"Eh? I don't believe I--" I paused perplexedly.
"That's right--her room-mate, I tell you! And in a day or two she's
coming home with Sis for a visit. I want you to come up for a week
end--won't you--and look her over--I mean, see her and tell me what you
think of her. You'll go crazy about her--oh, I know you will!"
I entered a protest. "Oh, I say now, you know, there's only one girl I
ever saw I would care to look at twice."
She smiled adorably. "Oh, don't I know all about how you feel? But I
just want you to see this girl--she's the prettiest and swellest that's
been around Boston for many a day; and on Sunday morning she could give
the flag to all the Avenue. Why, Dicky, she's from China!"
"China!" I must have looked the scorn I felt. "Oh, come now, you don't
think a Chinese girl is--"
"Not Chinese, Dicky." In her eagerness, she moved so near, the silk of
her pajamas brushed my hand. "She's English. Her dad's the British
Governor General of Hong Kong--Colonel Francis Kirkland, you
know--beefy-looking old chap with white mutton chops--I saw his
picture."
Hong Kong! I wondered if she knew Mastermann, the chap who had sent me
the red pajamas. Why, dash it, of course she would; for this fellow
Mastermann was out there on government business, and he and the Governor
must be thrown together a good deal.
Her musical laugh broke in on my speculations. "But the funniest thing
is, Dicky, her name's the same as mine."
Her name! By Jove, and until this moment, I had not thought--
"Oh, I say," I exclaimed eagerly, "what _is_ your name, anyway?"
The lustrous eyes opened wide. "Why, you mean to say you don't know?
Thought you knew I was named after the governor. And she's named after
_hers_--Frances, from Francis, you know--just the difference in a
letter. See?"
"Frances!" I murmured lingeringly. "So your name's Frances?"
"Yes, and hers is Frances--odd, isn't it?"
I assented, but I wished she would drop the other girl--I wasn't
interested there, except just because she was.
Her bosom lifted with a sigh. "Don't you think Frances is a peach of a
name?"
"It's heavenly!" I whispered. "And I'm glad to hear about your friend,
too."
Her sweet face clouded. "Not much of a friend; she don't lose any sleep
over me," she commented gloomily. "Then there's Sis double-crossing me
with her influence ever since I got hauled up before Prexy at Easter.
Sis is awfully prissy."
Her tone was almost savage. I strained incredulously after her meaning.
"Did I understand you to say you were brought up before the president
there at Radcliffe?"
"Radcliffe?" Her head shook. "No--Harvard." And I nodded, recalling the
affiliation between the two institutions at Cambridge.
I wondered what silly, tyrannical straining of red tape discipline on
some one's part had subjected this sensitive, refined girl to the
humiliating ordeal of having to appear before the president of the
college. Probably for plucking some trashy flower, or, at the worst,
looking twice at some sappy freshman acquaintance waving his hand from a
frat house.
"By Jove, a devilish shame!" I ejaculated.
"I should say!" Her voice was aggrieved. "All for a measly prize fight."
"Prize fight!" I gasped.
She nodded brightly. "Oh, a modest one, you know--not, of course, a
Jeffries-Johnson affair, but I tell you we had them going some for a
round and a half. Athletics is my long suit--just you feel those
biceps." And with sudden movement she swept upward the wide, silken
sleeve, showing a limb like the lost arm of the Venus de
what's-its-name.
"Go on--just feel it," she commanded, flexing the arm.
"I--I--" And I gulped and balked.
"_Feel_ it, I tell you!" And I did.
And then I almost fell over, I received such a shock. For my fingers
seemed to be clasping, not the soft, rounded contour I beheld, but a
great massed protuberance, hard and unyielding as a bunch of dried
putty. My fingers could not half span it.
I jerked them away, bewildered.
"Wonderful," I said faintly, and I batted perplexedly at the exquisite,
symmetrical arm.
"Oh, that's nothing," she said indifferently, jerking down her sleeve.
"I'm a little undertrained now; been putting in all my time on leg work.
That's what counts in foot-ball.
"Foot-ball!" I questioned, astonished. "Why, I didn't know--"
"That I was on the team? Surest thing you know; that's why I've got all
this mop of hair--comes below my collar--see?"
Her collar, indeed! It was easy to see that, if unbound, it would reach
considerably below her waist. But _foot-ball_! Why, she must mean
basket-ball, of course. I opened my mouth to remind her, when she
proceeded:
"But I was going to tell you about this prize fight. Well, this fight
was just a little one, you know. Purse of eighteen dollars; and we had
to chip in afterward with an extra three to get Mug Kelly--that's the
Charlestown Pet, you know--to stand the gaff for a second round. Why, he
was all in on the count at the end of the first round--what do you think
of that?"
"But I say, you know--" I began, but she lifted her hand.
"I know--I know what you're going to say, Dicky; you think we were a
bunch of easy marks, that's what you think. But how could we tell what
my room-mate was going to do to the Pet--we couldn't, you know."
"Your room-mate!" I exclaimed aghast. "A--an other young lady--in a
pugilistic encounter? Oh, I say!"
She chuckled. "G'long; stop your kidding!" And she kicked playfully at
me. Then she assumed a mincing air--finger on chin, lips pursed, and
eyes rolling upward, you know.
"Yes, another sweet young peacherino--Miss Billings' little room-mate--a
beef that hits the beam at about two-sixty--Little Lizzie, you know."
"Lizzie!" I repeated vaguely.
"Oh, say, Dicky, cut it out; let me finish. Well, another minute, and
the Pet would have been put to sleep, but just then the coppers nailed
us." She added gloomily: "And that's what queered me with Sis. Fierce,
ain't it?"
She sighed and her beautiful lashes drooped sadly. By Jove, I was so
jolly floored I couldn't manage a word. I knew, of course, that my heart
was broken, but it didn't matter. I loved her just the same; I should
always love her; and she had tried to let me know she loved me better
than any man she had ever met. What the deuce did anything else matter,
anyhow? We would marry and go out on a ranch or something of that sort,
where the false, polished what-you-call-it of civilization didn't count,
and no rude rebuff or sneer of society would ever chill her warm
impulsiveness.
She smiled archly. "See here, Dicky, I thought we were going to tell
each other the story of our lives. Your turn now; tell me how she looks
to you, this girl that came at last--there's always the one girl comes
at last, they say, if you wait long enough. Go on--tell me--what's she
like?"
"Of course, you don't know!" I said significantly.
"Me? Of course I wouldn't know--I want you to tell me. Say, is she
really so pretty?"
"Pretty," indeed! It was like this adorable child of nature not to
understand that she was the most perfect and faultless creation on
earth!
I leaned toward her. "_Is_ she pretty?" I repeated reproachfully.
She eyed me slyly.
"Oh, of course I know how _you_ feel," she said, "but draw me a
_picture_ of her."
"A picture!" I laughed. "All right, here goes: Eighteen, 'a daughter of
the gods, divinely tall and most divinely fair'--that sort of thing.
Features classic--perfect oval, you know, and profile to set an artist
mad with joy. Eyes? Blue as Hebe's, but big and true and tender; hair, a
great, shining nugget of virgin gold. Form divine--the ideal of a poet's
dream--the alluring, the elusive, the unattainable, the despair of the
sculptor's chisel."
"My!" said Miss Billings, staring.
But I was not through. "Complexion? Her skin as smooth as the heart of a
seashell and as delicately warm as its rosy blush when kissed by the
amorous tide."
"Gee!" ejaculated my darling.
I looked at her closely. "And in one matchless cheek a dimple divine
such as might have been left by the barbed arrow of Cupid when it awoke
Psyche from her swoon of death. In short, she might be the dainty fairy
princess of our childhood fantasies, were she less superb in figure. On
the other hand, she might be the sunny-haired daughter of a Viking king,
were she not too delicately featured and molded."
That was all I could remember from the description as I had read it in a
novel, but I was glad I had stored it up, by Jove, for it suited her to
a dot. She didn't say a word for a moment, but just sat there eying me
kind of sidewise, her little upper lip lifted in an odd way. Then of a
sudden she shook her head and swung her knees up over the arm of her
chair.
"Well, Dicky, as a describer you sure are the slushy spreader. Say,
you've got Eleanor Glyn backed off the boards."
She went on eagerly: "I don't care, though; slushy or not, your
picture's just perfect for _her_. Why, your girl must be a ringer for
the girl at Radcliffe. Only thing you left out was the freckle on the
chin."
Freckle on the chin! By Jove, I left it out on purpose, for I thought
she might not like it. I wondered if all girls at Radcliffe had freckles
on the chin.
She lay back, regarding me inscrutably. "If she looks like that," she
sighed, "you ought to love her very much, Dicky."
I couldn't say anything, for words are so deuced inadequate, you know.
But I just made an effort to look it all.
"Of course," sighing, "you ought to feel that way; and, another thing,
Dicky: you'll never forget where you first saw her, will you? One of the
things one never forgets."
"Right in this room," I murmured; "and in that wicker chair."
"Really?" Her surprised ejaculation was delicious. By Jove, how
entrancingly coquettish of her! How jolly clever!
"Go on; tell me how she was dressed--never mind any more picture
business; just tell me in four or five words. Bet you can't do it!" She
slipped over again to the arm of my chair.
In her eyes was a challenge and I took it up.
"In black silk pajamas," I said daringly.
Her blue eyes opened wide. For a moment I feared she would be offended
at my audacity, but her birdlike carol of laughter reassured me.
"Say, _you're_ not so slow, _are_ you?"
And her hand came down on my back with a force that made me jump.
"Only shows," she gurgled merrily, "how little Jack knows about you.
Say, you'd better never tell _him_ about those black pajamas!"
She spoke chokingly through a storm of laughter as she rocked there
against my shoulder.
"And say--the joke of it!" She banged me on the back with a clublike
blow, incredible from that little hand. "The joke of it is, he thought
I'd be so safe with you! Oh, mamma!"
And off she went again.
I shifted uneasily. I did not like it--her merriment over what was
perfectly obvious and rational. Of course, Billings knew she would be
safe. Why the deuce shouldn't he?
But the matter of the pajamas was another thing. Her receiving me in
them was a contingency I could not possibly have anticipated and
avoided, and yet a withdrawal because of them or even because of her
presence here had been shown to be a course inexplicable to her. She was
too innocent, too ingenuous, too _ingenue_ to understand that I was
invading the sanctuary of her privacy. Yet to have taken any course that
would have appeared to make correction of her error come from me would
have been appallingly caddish and cruel. No, the best course had seemed
to be to go right on--take no notice--and then, as soon as she retired,
slip away to the club. That seemed the gentlemanly thing.
Yet now her words implied a certain consciousness that her brother might
frown upon her attire, might even visit me with reproach. I was
troubled, and her next speech was not calculated to reassure me.
"But I'll--I'll never say a word, Dicky," she said, coming out of her
laughter and panting breathlessly. "Never! And don't _you_,
Dicky--don't you ever! Understand? Mum's the word!"
I looked up distressfully to protest, but her little head was shaking
earnestly, the long, delicate hair wisps about her forehead wavering
like tiny, curling wreaths of golden smoke.
"No, sir," she emphasized soberly; "if you ever let _that_ cat out of
the bag, it'll be all up with _me_--I mean Jack will never let me come
again. You must promise me."
"But--"
"Oh, but me no 'buts'--_promise_!"
"Why, then--er--of course, if you wish it."
"That's right, because I want to come again--that is, if you _want_ me.
But if Brother Jack was on to you, Dicky, as I am, he would sooner have
me at a hotel, that's all."
"But my dear Frances--"
"I tell you I _know_, Dicky; he doesn't approve of young ladies in
pajamas." She chuckled. "Not even black ones."
She stood up, looking at herself and performing a graceful pirouette
before the long pier glass.
"Now, if they had been crimson," she proceeded, "he might have felt
different. Old Jack's great on Harvard, and so am I."
Of course. All Radcliffe girls were, I knew.
By Jove, how I wished I could show her the lovely crimson pajamas
Mastermann had sent me from China! But I would have to summon Jenkins
to find them, and besides, it would be of questionable taste to present
them to her attention.
"Great idea, this, having pajamas in your college colors," she said. I
thought so, too, as I noted admiringly the rich effect of her golden
head above the black silk. But I thought the color a devilish odd
one--somber, you know--for colors of a young girl's school.
"My! my!" she murmured, "wouldn't I just love _to live_ in pajamas--just
go about in 'em all the time, you know! Why can't we, I wonder?" Her
face flashed me a ravishing smile; and while I was blinking over her
question, she went on: "Funny how the girls even are taking to 'em--even
Sis wears 'em!" She chuckled: "Hers are gray flannellette. But the girl
I'm telling you about--_she_ don't; Sis told the mater about it. It
seems that before she left China, some high muck-a-muck gave her
governor a swell pair of silk ones--something like these, I guess, but I
don't know of what color. But, anyhow, they were too delicate and fine
to be wasted on an old stiff like that, and he had sense enough to know
it. So he passed 'em down the line to her--Frances, you know. Well,
sir--" Here she sidled to the table and half leaned, half perched, upon
its edge; and I was so distracted watching her graceful poise and
gestures, that I lost what she was saying, by Jove.
It was her trill of laughter at something she had said, and the
question: "Wasn't that funny?" that brought me back to what she was
telling me.
"Yes, sir--said she just scared her maid--oh, _batty_! Because
she looked so ugly in 'em--that's what _she_ thinks, but of
course--_shucks_! Anyhow, she never wore 'em any more, and a day or two
later some coolie stole them--sold 'em probably."
Suddenly she yawned, stretched her arms above her head, and flashed me a
dazzling smile. By Jove, in the loose-fitting garments she looked for
all the world like an Oriental houri, or some jolly lovely thing like
that.
"Gee, but I'm sleepy!" she said behind her little hand. "If you'll
excuse me, Dicky, I believe it will be off to the springs--the bed
springs, for little Frankie. Good night, then. See you in the morning."
And with another radiant smile, she moved toward her room.
"Good night," I said wistfully.
By Jove, somehow I had hoped she would offer to kiss me, now that we
were engaged in a way. But then, of course, it wouldn't do--she knew
that. So ought I. Perhaps in the morning at the boat!
And the door closed behind her. I stood blinking after her a moment;
then I fixed my attention gloomily upon the cellarette. Poor little girl
and her foolish--but adorably foolish--college bravado! Sorrowfully I
locked the cellarette and dropped the key in my pocket.
Then I locked the outer doors of the hall and apartment, leaving the
keys unmolested on the inside. On the whole I decided I would not have
up the janitor's gossipy wife.
Next I sought Jenkins at the back.
"We will lock up back here, Jenkins, and go over to my rooms at the club
for the night."
Jenkins stared fixedly over my head. "Certainly, sir."
"And Jenkins--h'm!" I crumpled a bill into his mechanical palm. "You
will never allude to having seen that sweet--um--you understand,
Jenkins? Never seem to remember, even to me, that you ever saw any one
up here to-night."
"Certainly not, sir," indignantly. "I wouldn't, anyhow."
Yet his eyes, rolling back from the ceiling, seemed to hold me oddly for
an instant. In them was a touch of sadness.
"But may I speak of that Mr. Billings, sir? You know, if he comes--"
"Jenkins!" sharply.
"Certainly, sir!" Jenkins' mouth closed, traplike.
But all in vain my early rise the next morning, my careful toilet and my
dash in a taxi to a florist and then to Tiffany's for a ring. At the
pier I dodged about in the crowd, the boy trailing behind me with the
big purple box, but not a devilish thing could I see of Frances. By
Jove, I almost broke my monocle straining! At last I was sure she must
be left, for the last passengers were passing over the gang-plank.
"Hello, Dicky!"
The voice, coarse and hearty, came from an athletic young man in a
hurrah suit. On his head, perched jauntily above a mass of yellow hair,
was a straw hat with a crimson band.
I stared at him through my glass, but it was not any one I knew at all.
I looked at him coldly, for there's nothing so devilish annoying as
familiarities from strangers. I thought I could freeze him off.
But he only grinned. "Looking for Miss Billings?"
"I--I haven't seen her," I answered stiffly. But his question alarmed
me.
He chuckled in my face. "Guess you don't know her in her clothes, eh,
Dicky?" And I did not need the punch he gave me in the side to make me
stagger backward. "A thousand thanks, and good-by, old chap. I see
they're hauling in the plank."
He lingered for one bearlike grab at my hand.
"And say, don't forget--for I know Jack Billings better than you
do--don't ever let him know about all that Scotch last night."
He called over his shoulder with a grin: "Keep it dark--as dark as those
black pajamas, Dicky!"
And as long as I could see, he stood on the deck, waving his hat at me
as I stood there with my mouth open, my eyes following him with horror.
By Jove, who was he, and what did he know?
CHAPTER VIII
HER BROTHER JACK
"Good night, Dicky!" came up the elevator shaft. And then more "good
nights," growing fainter with their laughter as the car shot down.
"Good night," I called after them. "Devilish sorry you fellows won't
stay longer!"
"Jolly good lie, Jenkins," I said, yawning sleepily, as I dropped back
into my own apartment.
"Yes, sir," assented Jenkins demurely. "It's sleeping on the divan the
other night, sir. Eight hours there ain't nothing like eight hours in
bed and in your pajamas."
"Pajamas!" I ejaculated, startled.
For all day I had been thinking of _her_. I wondered if Billings would
happen to think to invite me up for the week end. But he had so many
times, and I had never gone.
"By Jove, that reminds me," I said. "Those red silk pajamas!"
"Yes, sir." Jenkins' face hardened in an odd, wooden way.
"I was wondering, Jenkins, if those pajamas were torn any in our little
row the other night."
Poor Jenkins winced a little. "I think not, sir," he muttered
humbly--"leastwise, they were all right last night when Mr.--" He seemed
to catch himself abruptly. "I mean when I found them this morning, sir."
He returned with the garments I had received from Mastermann, and again
we spread them under the lamp on the table. They looked singularly
smooth and unwrinkled. There was not a single tear or break, not even
with the delicate cords that twisted to form the frogs of the coat.
"My, sir! But ain't they red!" breathed Jenkins. "Them cords look like
little red snakes."
I cut an anxious glance at Jenkins, for I did not like his reference to
snakes. Seemed ominous, somehow. But his appearance was composed and
reassuring. And, by Jove, come to look, the cords did look just like
tiny, coiled serpents of glowing fire. Why, they were so jolly red they
hurt your eyes. Fact! And thin as the beautiful stuff was, this brighter
red ran all over the other, covering every inch of it and forming the
closest, finest what-you-call-it embroidery. It was as faint and dainty
a pattern as that on a soap bubble! Fact is, I could not trace it, even
with my glass.
The only part that wasn't covered with this embroidery business was the
stuff used to cover the knots, or little balls, over which the cords
were meant to hook. In working with some of these cords, idly fastening
and unfastening them, I got a little impatient with one that seemed
tight, you know, and I used my manicure knife to pull the knot through.
"Careful, sir," warned Jenkins. "Likely to cut something."
By Jove! No sooner said, than I did it!
The dashed blade slipped somehow and cut into the threads that tied the
covers or caps or whatever-you-call-'ems, over the knots. And when I
pulled, the beastly piece of silk came off in my fingers.
And then--oh, but I say! I just gave a sort of yell and dropped the
whole thing!
Ever have some silly ass try to scare you by poking a red hot cigar at
you in the dark? Know how you jerk back? Well, there you are! For, give
you my word, when I peeled off the little cloth cap, regular blazes of
crimson fire seemed to shoot from the end of the knot.
Fact is, it wasn't a knot at all, but a button--a devilish glassy
button, something bigger than a dime, perhaps, and thick as the end of
your little finger. And there it lay against the silk, burning its way
through it like a red coal of fire.
Dashed if it didn't look that way, anyhow. I just sat there blinking
like a jolly owl, waiting to see the stuff begin to smoke, before I had
presence of mind to tell Jenkins to touch it to see if it would burn.
But Jenkins wouldn't. He just stood there with his jaw hanging and his
eyes bulging like champagne corks!
And it was just then that Billings rolled in.
I say "rolled in," because it always looks that way. That's the way
Billings is built, you know.
"I say, Dicky," he panted, "just missed another infernal express! Plenty
more trains, but I had a great inspiration strike me that I'd let you
put me up for the night. Hat, Jenkins! Now, don't say a word, Dicky, old
chap. Cane, Jenkins! Great pleasure, assure you--won't inconvenience me
at all. Gloves, Jenkins! Just give me something to sleep in, and I'll be
as comfortable here as I would be at the club--so don't worry any about
me, old chap. By the way, want to thank you for taking care of the kid.
Got home all right, I understand."
He plunked like a jolly elephant into the largest and most comfortable
chair in the room and wheezed for breath.
"And, Jenkins!" He raised one fat finger while he took a gasp. "Don't
mind if I do have a package of Dicky's Koroskos and a sloe fizz--not too
sweet, you know; and you may--"
He halted, his eyes suddenly riveted to the table, and straightened
inquiringly, his big hands poised upon the padded arms of the chair.
"Suffering Thomas cats! What's that?" he exclaimed. "The scream
there--flag of Morocco?"
And then, without pausing for reply, he dashed on:
"I say, old chap, if you're picking up those, I can get you a few for
nothing. You know Higgins, cashier-that-was of the Widows' National,
eh? Well, Higgins sent the governor a Morocco flag the other day from
Tangier. Fact is, he sent one to every director of the bank--and an
extra large one to that bank examiner!"
He chuckled wabblingly, like a jolly jellyfish.
"Talk about a red flag to a bull," he exploded, "why, they--"
Billings broke off suddenly. Then he climbed heavily to his feet, and
without warning, heaved himself across the room and seized the button I
had just uncovered. Dashed if he didn't almost upset me.
"Here, I say!" I protested. "Don't lose that cap." I picked it up from
where he had jerked it to the floor. "It's the cover to hide that glass,
you know."
"Wh-a-a-t!"
Billings swung round, staring at me with the most curious expression.
"See here, Dicky," he exclaimed rather excitedly, but in a low tone, as
he cut a side glance at Jenkins siphoning the fizz over at the
cellarette. "What in thunder have you been doing now?"
By Jove, I turned cold for a minute, I was that startled. I thought he
was going to use the pajamas as an introduction for reference to last
night. But in a minute I saw that he did not mean that.
"Where on earth did _you_ get anything like this?" And he held up the
button and the garment.
"Oh, I say now!" I remonstrated, alarm changing to a mild dudgeon.
Billings' devilish rude manners are so offensive at times. "What do you
mean? It's a present from a friend in China."
"Present!" Billings' eyes bulged queerly. He stooped toward me,
whispering: "Did he know what this button was?"
"Why, of course he didn't," I answered indignantly. "Never dreamed of
it, of course. I tell you, it was all nicely covered, was
what-you-call-it--upholstered, you know--with devilish nice silk. I cut
it off accidentally, trying to force the thing through that loop. That
left the marble exposed."
Billings took the glass mechanically from the tray tendered by Jenkins
and sipped it slowly, eying me curiously over the top. Then he set it
back, very deliberately, wiped his mouth with the bit of napery, and
without taking his glance from me, waited until Jenkins had left the
room. Whereupon, after another searching look at the button, he dropped
it with the garment upon the table, and with hands jammed deep in his
pockets, faced me with a long-drawn whistle.
"Well, I'll be hanged!" he exclaimed. Just a coarse, vulgar outburst,
you know--no sense to it; no point at all, you know--that's Billings.
He caught up the coat again. "And these others--four of them--are they
just the same?" he demanded sharply.
"Dash it, how should I know? I suppose so," I answered indifferently.
And I closed my eyes and leaned back, feeling a bit--just a bit--weary.
Somehow, Billings is always so exhausting when he gets started on
something.
"Oh, cut it out, old chap," I protested, drowsy-like.
"I will," I heard him say. Then I guess I must have dropped off a bit,
for the next thing I knew he was shaking me.
"Dicky! Dicky! Say, look here! _Look_, I tell you!"
I did look, and--well, I was jolly vexed, that's all.
"Oh, I say now!" I spoke severely--just that way, you know. I went on,
remonstrating: "Devilish silly joke, if you ask me. You've gone and
ruined the thing, Billings! Flashy buttons like that, you know--too
tawdry, too cheap."
"_Cheap!_" He almost shouted it. Then he leaned over the back of the
leather chair and pounded his fat head against the cushions, writhing
his big bulk from side to side.
"Quite impossible," I said firmly. "Not _en regle_ at all, you know!"
And I fixed my glass and stared gloomily at the things. The five shiny
buttons just lay there against the delicate silk like so many fiery
crimson cherries. And they reminded me of something--something--what the
deuce was it? Something devilish familiar, whatever it was. And then of
a sudden I had it!
"By Jove, you know!" And I just fell back in consternation. "This is
awful! I'd look like a--er--dashed human cocktail. Oh, I say!"
Then Billings, who was already gasping like a jolly what's-its-name,
dropped upon the arm of the chair and held his side.
"Dicky, you--you'll be the death of me yet," he panted.
I never try to follow Billings. Nobody ever does. So I paid no attention
to him. Shaking his head, he lifted the garment again and held it out of
the direct rays of the shaded lamp. The five buttons leaped out of the
shadow like port lights down the bay on a moonless night.
He leered at me, chuckling. "Look _cheap_ to you, eh? What you might
call _outre_, so to speak?"
"By Jove, of course," I answered ruefully. "I can't sleep in the things
now, you know. What would people say?"
Billings stared at me disagreeably a moment and said something under his
breath. Then he caught up the buttons and the silk, and crushing them in
his hands, buried his face in the mass.
"Oh you beauties, you darlings!" I heard him murmur.
Then he looked at the buttons again, and dash it, he kissed one.
Maudlin--jolly maudlin, I say, if you ask me!
"I say, Dicky," he said carelessly. "You may not care for them, but I've
taken rather a shine to these buttons. Mind letting me have one, eh?"
He flashed a quick glance at me and then away.
"Mind? Why, certainly not; take 'em all, old chap, and welcome." Yet I
responded gloomily enough, scarcely polite, you know. And I felt too
jolly prostrated to be curious as to what he could possibly want with
the things. Waistcoat buttons, likely--Billings was given to loud dress
and other bounder stunts. But he just sat there looking down after I
spoke, and presently stole a queer glance at me.
"Dicky," he said, and paused. Then he fished out that perfectly
impossible pipe of his and began to pack it, slowly shaking his head.
"Dicky, anybody that would take advantage of you would lift a baby's
milk gurgler."
Of course, I saw no more sense in that than you do, you know, but I
understood that in his crude, vulgar way he meant some sort of a
compliment.
"Dash it, of course," I said offhand, straightening up and recrossing my
legs. I always say that and do that way when fellows say stupid things.
Such a jolly good way to keep from hurting their feelings, you know, and
saves talking and thinking. Got on to it myself.
Billings' eye ranged at me as he lighted his pipe. The smoke seemed to
make him cough, and it was this, I suppose, that set him chuckling.
He suddenly held up the row of red buttons again.
"Look here, you blessed dodo," he exclaimed brusquely. "Have you really
no idea what these are, these glass buttons you are yapping about? Of
course you haven't, you jolly chowder head, but I'm going to tell you."
He threw the coat into my lap.
"They are rubies, old man, that's all," he said quietly. "Oriental
rubies, at that--flawless and perfect--the rarest and most precious
things in the world."
CHAPTER IX
AN AMAZING REVELATION
I stared blankly at Billings. "Rubies!" I gasped.
He nodded. "Genuine pigeon bloods, my son, no less."
"Oh, come now, Billings," I protested. I felt a little miffed, just a
little you know. So jolly raw to try it on that way.
"By jove, old chap, you must think me a common ass," I suggested
disgustedly.
Billings grinned at the very idea.
"_You_ a common ass, Dicky?" he ejaculated. "Nobody who knows you would
ever think that, old man."
"But, I say--"
"See here, Dicky boy, I'm in dead earnest," he interrupted eagerly.
"Don't you remember my one fad--gems? Got enough tied up in them to
build two apartment houses as big as this. Best amateur collection in
New York, if I do say it. But I haven't anything like one of these
rubies, and neither has any one else--no one else in this country,
anyhow. There's nothing like them in all New York, from Tiffany's down
to Maiden Lane, and never has been. I never saw anything like--near
like any of them--except the one in the Russian crown of Anna Ivanovana.
That's bigger, but it hasn't the same fire."
I just laughed at him. "Why, Billings, these pajamas were sent me by a
friend in China, and I assure you--"
"Assure? What can you assure--what do _you_ know about it?" said
Billings rudely. "What did your friend know, or the one he had these
things from--or the one before him--or the one still before that?
Pshaw!" And he snapped his fingers.
With his hand he swept up the little caps and the long, wirelike threads
that held them and sniffed the handful curiously.
"H'm! Funky sort of aromatic smell--balsam, cedar oil or something like
that," he muttered half aloud. "That accounts for the preservation. But
still--"
He crossed his legs and puffed thoughtfully.
"Tell you how I figure this out, Dicky," he said finally. "These
nighties your friend has sent you are awfully rare and old; and for
delicate, dainty elegance and that sort of thing they've got everything
else in the silk way shoved off the clothes-line. But as to these
jewels, you can just bet all you've got that whoever passed them on was
not wise to them being under these covers."
Here he got to looking at one of the buttons and murmuring his
admiration--regular trance, you know.
"By Jove!" I remarked, just to stir him up a bit. And he unloaded a
great funnel of smoke and continued:
"My theory is that during some danger, some mandarins' war, likely,
somebody got cold feet about these jewels and roped them in with these
bits of silk--see how different they are from the rest of the stuff!
Then, when the roughhouse came, these pajamas were swept along in the
sacking--sort of spoils of pillage, you know. It was a clever method of
concealment--clever because simple--a hiding place unlikely to be
thought of because right under the eye. You recall Poe's story of _The
Purloined Letter_?"
I tried to remember. "Can't say I do, dear boy," I had to admit. "Don't
seem to place that one. Only one I remember hearing him tell is that one
he brought back from Paris. Let me see--_The Story of the Lonely
Lobster_, I think he called it." I chortled delightedly as it came back
to me. "By Jove, that was devilish neat! Don't know when I've ever
heard--"
An offensive remark by Billings interrupted me.
"Here, Dicky, Dicky, what do you think you're talking about?" he added
rudely. Evidently his mind had wandered from the subject. So I replied
with dignity--dignity, with just a touch of sarcasm:
"Pogue--'Mickey' Pogue of our club. Perhaps you don't know Mickey
Pogue?" And, by Jove, that fetched him! He stared at me a moment, and
then, getting up, he reached over and solemnly shook me by the hand.
"Dicky," he said, wagging his head, "I apologize. You take the
_brioche_!" And he turned his back a second.
I asked Billings how much he thought one of the rubies was worth. I had
in mind how devilish hungrily he had looked at them. But he sighed, then
frowned and answered impatiently:
"That's it! That's the trouble about all the rare and beautiful things
of this life! Always some debasing, prohibitive sordid money value,
dammit!"
He squinted at the stones again and let the weight of one rest upon his
finger. He shook his head, sighing.
"Well, they're over twenty carats each, and therefore, of course, many
times the value of first water diamonds. After you get above five carats
with real Oriental rubies, diamonds are not in it."
With an abrupt gesture he pushed the things away and rose. His pipe had
gone out, but I noticed that he did not relight it. I held the gems full
in the rays of the lamp, and Billings paused, holding a hungry gaze over
his shoulder.
"I say, Billings, how much did you say one was worth?" I asked
carelessly. For a moment he did not reply, but muttered to himself.
"I didn't say," he finally replied, and rather crossly. Then he whirled
on me impulsively. "See here, Lightnut," he exclaimed, "if you'll let me
have one of those for my collection, I'll give you twenty-five thousand
for it--there!"
He gulped and continued:
"I'll have to make some sacrifices, but I don't mind that. I--"
But I shook my head. Really, I could hardly keep from laughing in his
face.
"Sorry! Can't see it, old chap," I said. "Wouldn't sell one of them at
any price."
Billings gulped again. "I suppose not; don't blame you. Way you're
fixed, you don't have to." He walked slowly to the window and back.
"Take my advice, Dicky, and get those fire coals into your safe deposit
vault first thing in the morning. Hello, you're cutting them off! That's
wise."
For with the knife he had left on the table I was cutting away the tough
threads that held the rubies. I cut off the second and fourth, leaving
the first ruby at the collar and the other two alternates.
"Go on," said Billings, as I laid down the knife. "You've only removed
two."
"Don't believe I'll cut off any more," I said. "Want you to help me tie
up the others just as they were."
"What!"
I insisted. And though Billings protested and argued and even called me
names, we did as I said.
For, by Jove, you know it was perfectly clear that if they had been safe
so long under the little covers, the jewels couldn't find any better
place. Singular thing Billings couldn't see it. Besides, the pajamas
had to have fastenings, you know.
I held one of the two rubies under the light, and, by Jove, I almost
dropped it--did drop my glass. Seeing a red-hot poker-point in your
fingers would give you the same turn.
"Rippers, Billings! Simply rippers!" I exclaimed.
I held the other ruby beside its fellow. Then I waited, listening, and I
heard Billings' hand strike down on the back of a chair.
"I guess I'll be going, old chap," he said gruffly. "Think I'd better,
after all." He cleared his throat. "Sure you can't sell me one, Dicky?"
Dashed if his voice didn't tremble.
"Quite sure, dear boy," I murmured, without turning around. "Not mine,
you know--these two."
Billings exploded then. It seemed an opportunity to relieve himself.
"Not yours! Why, you dod-gasted idiot, you nincompoop, you cuckoo, you
chicken head! What notion have you got in that fool's noddle now? If
those rubies are not yours, whose do you think they are?"
I whirled about quickly. "Yours," I said, and laid them in his hand.
"My compliments, old chap," I added, smiling. By Jove! One time, at
least, I put it all over old Billings!
"No!" he gasped, crouching over and gripping my shoulder.
I grinned cheerfully.
He fell into a chair and just sat there mouthing at me and then at the
jewels in his hand. Old boy looked devilish silly. Really acted like he
had some sort of stroke--that sort of thing.
I laughed at him.
"Don't you see?" I said, trying to explain. "Wouldn't have known a
dashed thing about the buttons being rubies but for you. So lucky they
came to me so I can get a chance to help out your collection. Awfully
glad, old chap."
He clenched the jewels, and looked down.
"Dicky--" He coughed a little huskily as he paused. "Dicky." His voice
was so low I could hardly hear him. "Dicky, you're off your trolley, and
I'm a damned--"
He raised his arm and dropped it.
"Well, never mind what," he finished with a lift of the shoulders. "But
I want to say something. It's about what I offered you for those stones.
The price--the amount I named--wasn't even a decent gamble; but it was
all I could go, and oh, I wanted one so badly, Dicky! And now you've
made me feel like a dog. And I can't take your gift, old chap, any more
than I could afford to offer you the real value of one of these
beautiful stones. Here." And he passed them back to me.
"I _know_ each of them to be worth anywhere from forty to fifty thousand
dollars," he said quietly. "They're the kind the crowned heads scoop for
jewels of state."
I nodded, and, getting up carelessly, I strolled to a window.
"Devilish lovely night," I said, poking my head out. And it was. Stars
overhead and all that sort of thing, and lots of them below, too--I
could hear them singing over on Broadway.
"All right, old chap; then here they go into the street," I said. "If my
friend can't have 'em, then no jolly crowned heads shall. That's flat!"
Billings started forward with a regular scream.
I waved him back. "Don't come any nearer, old chap," I said, holding my
arm out of the window, "or, dash me, I'll drop them instantly. Six
stories, you know--stone flagging below."
"But, Dicky--"
"If you don't say you'll take 'em, time I count three, I'll give 'em a
toss, by Jove! One!"
"Here, Dicky! Don't be a--"
"Two!" I counted. No bluff, you know; I meant jolly well to do it.
"Just one word--one second, Dicky!" he yelled. "Let me off with one,
then. Dicky! Dicky, old chap! Be a good sportsman!"
I hesitated. Dash it, one hates to take an advantage.
Billings stretched out his arm appealingly. "Do, old chap!" he pleaded.
"Give me just one--one only!"
His hand shook like a quivering what's-its-name leaf.
I yielded reluctantly: "Oh, well then, call it off with one," I said.
And with a sigh I tossed him one of the rubies and dropped the other in
the pocket of my smoking-jacket. Billings wiped his forehead, and then
he thanked me and wiped his eyes.
"So good of you to give in, old chap," he snuffled. "Never will forget
you for it!"
"Oh, I say, chuck it, you know!" I protested.
"Whole family will thank you," he went on in his handkerchief. "Princely
magnanimity and all that sort of thing--you'll just _have_ to come up
for the week end with me this--"
"I _will_!" I reached forward eagerly and insisted on shaking hands. By
Jove, what luck!
And Billings looked regularly overcome. All he could do was just shake
his head and pump my arm. Why, dash it, this seemed to affect him more
even than giving in about the ruby. It was the first time I had ever
accepted his invitation, you know.
"Tell you what, old chap," he said, as soon as he could speak. "I'm
going to tell you what to do with that other stone. You save that for
_her_."
"Her!" By Jove, I was so startled I lost the grip on my monocle.
Billings nodded emphatically.
"Yes, sir--for _her_; she'll be along one of these days."
"By Jove, you know!" I was almost dizzy with a sudden idea. I fished out
the jewel and held it before my glass, squinting doubtfully at it. I
wondered if it was _good_ enough for "her."
"I say, Billings," I murmured thoughtfully. "Blondes or brunettes, you
know--which wear rubies?"
"Both!" He said it with a kind of jaw snap. "They wear anything in the
jewel line they can freeze on to."
"But which--"
"The worst? Blondes, my boy--blondes, every time; especially those going
around in black." Billings spoke gloomily. "Let me tell you, my boy--and
I _know_--don't you ever have anything to do with a blonde if she's in
_black_, especially black silk--hear?"
By Jove, his uplifted finger and fierce way of saying it gave me a
regular turn, you know. But then there was the ruby, and I was thinking
that--
"Perhaps the four of them in a bracelet," I muttered, "with something
else to help out. They _might_ do."
"They might," said Billings in a tone of coarse sarcasm. "They might do
for a queen!"
I flashed a quick look at him. "Just what _I_ was thinking," I answered
gently.
"Meantime," said Billings, yawning, "let's go to bed."
And just as I rang for Jenkins I suddenly was seized with a perfectly
ripping idea that checked a long yawn right in the middle and almost
broke my jaw. For I saw how I could do something handsome that would
even up with Billings in a way for the ruby he wouldn't take.
"Tell you what, old chap," I said, slapping him on the shoulder, "_you_
are going to have them to-night!"
"Have--have what?" burst from him. "Rubies? I tell you I won't take
another--"
"Rubies!" I ejaculated contemptuously. "Rubies nothing! Something
better--something worth while, dash it!"
I saw he would never guess it.
"Why, you shall sleep in the pajamas from China," I exclaimed. And
gathering them, I placed them in his hands.
"By George, Dicky!" Billings' face showed feeling. "How infernally
clever of you, old chap! How thundering timely, too!"
He held them up singly, studying their outlines critically.
"And see here, Dicky--why, great Thomas cats!" His eyes turned on me
wonderingly. "Never noticed it before--did you? But I do believe they
are just my size!"
His size! By Jove, I had forgotten all about the item of size! I just
collapsed into a chair as he said good night, and sat there blinking in
a regular stupefaction of horror as his door closed behind him.
For he was devilish sensitive about his bulk, and I dared not say a
word.
CHAPTER X
A NOCTURNAL INTRUSION
"Oh, but I say, it's impossible, you know!" And I stared at Jenkins
incredulously.
He grinned foolishly. "I know, sir; but he's in 'em, just the same, and
I must say they do fit lovely--just easy-like."
"By Jove!" I gasped helplessly. "Then the jolly things must be made of
rubber, that's all! Why, look here, he weighs over three hundred pounds,
you know!"
Jenkins' head wagged sagaciously. "I think that's how it is, sir; it's
wonderful what they do with rubber now; my brother wears a rubber cloth
bandage that ain't no bigger 'round than my arm when it's off of him,
and he--"
"Dare say," I said sleepily as I fell back upon my pillow. "Good night,
Jenkins; hope you'll get enough sleep to make up for the other night."
Jenkins sighed as he punched out the light. "Thank you, sir--and good
night," he murmured.
How long I slept I can not tell, as they say in stories, you know; but I
was brought jolly wide awake by a light that shone through the
bedroom's open door. For if there's one thing will wake me quicker than
everything else it's a light in the room at night. Fact is, I always
want it as black as the what's-its-name cave, or else I can't sleep. And
this light came from the small electric stand on the writing-desk. I
could tell that by the way it shone.
And just then the little silver gong in there chimed three. Jolly rum
hour for anybody to be up unless they were having some fun or were sick.
So I raised my head and called softly:
"Jenkins--er--Billings!"
No answer. Reluctantly I swung out and stepped within the next room. Not
a soul there, by Jove! Then I moved over to Billings' door, which was
wide open for coolness, like my own. I could not see the shadowed alcove
in which the bed was placed, and so I stood there hesitating, hating
awfully to risk the possibility of disturbing him, don't you know. And
just then my eyes, ranging sleepily across the room toward the private
hall, were startled by the apparition of an open doorway.
Startled, all right! And yet, by Jove, I was in such a jolly fog, I just
stood there, nodding and batting at it for a full minute before I could
take it in.
"What I call devilish queer," I decided. I walked over and stuck my head
out into the dark hall.
"Billings! Jenkins!" I whispered.
By Jove, not a word! Everything as silent as the tomb!
I didn't like it a bit--so mysterious, you know. Besides, dash it, the
thing was getting me all waked up! I just knew if once I got excited and
thoroughly awake, it would take me nearly ten minutes to get to sleep
again. And, by Jove, just then the excitement came, for I got hold of
the fact after I had stared at it a while, that the door of my apartment
opening into the outer corridor was standing ajar. Why, dash it, it was
not only standing, it was moving. Then suddenly the broad streak of
light from the corridor widened under the impulse of a freshening
breeze, and the door swung open with a bang.
And then I heard my name spoken.
By Jove, I had been standing there with my mouth open, bobbing my head
like a silly dodo; but, give you my word, I was suddenly wide awake as a
jolly owl wagon!
Away down the corridor, by the mail chute, a man was standing, reading a
framed placard. Nothing particularly remarkable in this, but as the door
banged he turned his head sharply and ejaculated:
"Dammit! Now, that will wake Lightnut!"
I was surprised, because I couldn't recall ever having seen him before;
yet, standing as he did under the light, I had opportunity for a
devilish good view.
He was a heavy set old party, rather baldish, with snowy mutton chops
and a beefy complexion that was jolly well tanned below the hatband
line, you know. The kind of old boy you size up as one of the prime
feeder sort and fond of looking on the wine when it is Oporto red. Had
something of the cut of the retired India colonels one sees about the
Service clubs in London--straight as a lamp post still, but out of
training and in devilish need of tapping--that sort of duck, you know!
What a respectable-looking old party might be up to, wandering around a
bachelor apartment building at three in the morning, was none of my
business. What's more, you know, I didn't care a jolly hang. But the
thing that dashed me was that just as I moved toward the door to close
it, he uttered my name again and came straight toward me as though to
speak.
So I had to wait, by Jove, for I couldn't close the door in his face.
Awfully rotten thing to do--that, you know.
"Lost his floor and wants to inquire," I decided.
And then as he toddled across the last yard and stopped before me, I saw
that the old chap was in his night things--some darkish sort of pajamas.
His bushy white eyebrows puckered in a frown.
"Hello! Just afraid my moving around was going to get you up--infernal
shame!" he said in a thunder growl.
I smiled feebly but politely. "Devilish considerate old cock," was my
thought. "Means well."
Aloud I said: "Not at all, you know. Up anyhow."
Then I moved the door just a little--just a wee suggestive inch or two,
you know, hoping he would go.
But, by Jove, he just walked right in!
Then he leaned against the wall in the corridor and chuckled.
"By George!" he exclaimed with a leer that showed his almost toothless
old gums. "Bet you never would guess what I got up for!"
No, dash it, I didn't even care to try. I just coughed a little.
"He, he!" he giggled. "Woke up and remembered had promised Flossie
Fandango of _The Parisian Broilers_ a box of steamer flowers. Gad, she
sails at ten; so I piled out and shot off a note to my florist, special
delivery. Been trying to find out from that infernal card back there
when's the first collection from the box below. You don't know, do you?"
By Jove, one of those foot-in-the-grave old stage-door Johnnies! The
surprise took my breath.
"Why, the cheesy old sport!" I thought disgustedly. And I answered
rather coldly: "Sorry, you know; no idea." And I opened the door wide.
But the old rascal never moved; just stood there, chuckling horribly.
"Well, she'll be back in the fall," he cackled. "And see here, old chap,
will introduce you if you like. You need waking up!"
And here I gave a jump and yelled "Ouch!"
For the old fool had dug his thumb into my ribs. Only then did it dawn
on me that he was drunk. Of course that was it, and unless I got rid of
him the old bore would stand and twaddle the rest of the night. I
reached for his hand and shook it.
"We'll have a talk about it some time," I said pleasantly. "Just now,
don't you think we'd better each get to bed? So devilish late, you
know."
He slapped me on the shoulder with a blow that almost brought me to the
floor. Felt like he struck me with a ham, don't you know!
"Right, old chap," he said; "very delicately put; won't keep you up
another minute. Believe I'd like a drink first, though, if you don't
mind."
Devilish bored as I was, I decided the easiest escape was to humor him.
"All right," I said, leaving the door open and stepping into the room;
"I'll get you a glass of water."
"Water!" he exclaimed, following me right in. "Say, don't get funny;
it's not becoming to you." He leered at me hideously.
He went right to the corner where stood my cellarette. By Jove, give you
my word I was so devilish stupefied I couldn't bring out a word. I
wasn't sure what was coming, and as I didn't want Billings' rest
disturbed, I quietly closed the door of his room.
The old cock in the black pajamas had uncorked a bottle and was smelling
its contents. He grimaced over his shoulder.
"That's infernally rotten Scotch, I say!" he exclaimed with a sort of
snort. "Regular sell, by George!"
I was glad Billings didn't hear him, for it had been a present from him
only the week before.
"Suppose I'll have to go the rye," he grumbled; and, grinning at me
familiarly, he poured himself a drink. He tossed it off, neat. I
reflected that perhaps he would go quietly now.
"Well," I said, advancing, "I expect you're anxious to get to your
quarters, so I'll say good night." I extended my hand. "That ought to
fetch him," I thought, "if he's a gentleman, no matter how jolly corked
he may be."
In my grasp his hand felt like a small boxing glove, but when I glanced
at it I saw that it was not unusual.
The old duck pumped my arm solemnly and cast his eyes to the ceiling.
"Fa-are-we-e-ll, old f-friend!" he murmured in a husky tremolo,
deflecting the corners of his mouth and wagging his bald pate. "If I
don't see you again I'll have the river dragged!"
And then, instead of going, dash me if the old fool didn't flop down
into Billings' favorite chair and reach for Billings' cigarettes that he
had left on the tabouret.
He waved his hand at me. "Oh, you go on to bed, Lightnut," he said,
puffing away with iron nerve. "All the sleep's out of me, dammit! I'll
just sit here and read and smoke as long as I like, then I'll go in
there and turn in." A jerk of his doddering head indicated Billings'
room.
By Jove, I hardly knew what to do! I was regularly bowled over, don't
you know. I was up against a crisis--that's what--a crisis.
"Oh, I say, you know--" I started remonstrating, and just then I gasped
with relief at the welcome sight of Jenkins, peeking round the
door-frame behind my visitor's back. His finger was on his lips and he
beckoned me earnestly.
At the same moment old whiskers shoved his chair up to the table,
switched on the reading-lamp and reached for a magazine.
"I'm on, sir," whispered Jenkins, as I joined him and we stepped aside.
"Hadn't I better ring up the janitor on my house 'phone?"
"By Jove, the very thing!" I agreed. "For he'll know where this chap
belongs. A fiver, tell him, if he gets a move on. Hurry!"
I slipped back into the room as Jenkins disappeared. The jolly old
barnacle had discarded his cigarette and was critically selecting a
cigar from my humidor.
"I don't see why the devil you don't go to bed," he said, fixing himself
comfortably with two chairs and lighting up.
"I--I'm not sleepy," I stammered, perching on the corner of a chair.
"I believe you're lying," he growled, scowling at me; "but if you're
not sleepy, listen to this joke here--it's a chestnut, but it's
infernally good."
I never did know what the joke was, for I was listening for other sounds
as he read. Suddenly I heard a whistle far down in the street; and I
thought it was followed by a patter of running feet.
Then came the quivering rhythm of the elevator rapidly ascending, and
while the anecdote was still being droned out between chuckles, I
slipped out again into the hall and rejoined Jenkins.
"Janitor says there's no such tenant in this building as I described,"
Jenkins imparted hurriedly. "Might be a guest, of course; but he doesn't
remember ever seeing him. So he whistled for a cop, to be on the safe
side, and caught two. Here they are, sir."
Out from the elevator sprang the janitor, half-dressed and looking
excited. Close on his heels came two big policemen.
I stepped into the outer corridor and explained the situation. The
officers nodded reassuringly.
"'Nough said," one of them commented. "We'll have him out, sir."
The janitor, who had been cautiously sighting through the door within,
came running out.
"He shifted around while I was looking, and I got a good look at him,"
he said with some excitement, "and I never saw him before. I wouldn't
forget _that_ mug!"
"Suppose you take a squint at him yourself, O'Keefe," suggested the
taller of the coppers. "You've been on this beat so long."
In a minute or two O'Keefe came slipping back hurriedly. He drew his
companion aside.
"Tell you what, Tim," I heard him say, "do you know, I'm after thinking
it looks like old Braxton, known in the perfesh as 'Foxy Grandpa.' He's
a swell con man, but has just finished a stretch at Copper John's for
going through a flat in the Bronx. He's done murder once."
The other turned to me.
"May save a muss in your rooms if you'll just kinder call him out, sir,"
he suggested. "It will be simpler." He grinned significantly and glanced
at his night stick.
"By Jove!" I ejaculated, looking at Jenkins. "By Jove, you know!"
Jenkins coughed. "Just say you want to speak to him a minute, sir," he
said. "They'll do the rest--h'm!"
They all followed me into the hall, and I stepped to the doorway. And
then I almost pitched forward, I was so devilish startled.
For, as a crowning example of his daring and reckless conduct, the hoary
old reprobate was emerging from Billings' room, his fingers overhauling
the contents of my friend's wallet, even as he waddled along, and so
absorbed that he never even saw me.
"Ah!" he breathed in a heavy sigh of satisfaction; and out came his
fingers, and in them, poised aloft, he held the ruby I had given to
Billings. His bleary eyes gloated at it.
"Mine!" he whispered. "Mine now to keep forever!"
CHAPTER XI
IRON NERVE
I just stood in the doorway, staring. Couldn't say a word, my throat was
that paralyzed. First time, you know, I'd ever seen a real burglar or
jolly hold-up man, and he looked so different from what I had expected.
But I knew now, of course, that the policeman was right and that the
respectable-looking old gentleman was no other than the desperate
criminal described as "Foxy Grandpa." But for the intervention of
outside assistance doubtless Billings and I might have had our throats
cut by the conscienceless old geezer.
He was so absorbed that he did not see me, nor the two helmets piking
above my shoulder.
"Up to his old tricks," O'Keefe whispered. "We've got him in the act,
Tim!"
"Great!" breathed Tim. "What won't the captain say!"
O'Keefe's breath tickled my ear again and swept my nose. I've never seen
beer or sauerkraut since but what I think of it!
"Got your stick ready?" he was saying. "Best not take any chances;
Braxton's a quick shooter, they say. When we jump him, better give him
the club right off."
Tim whispered an impatient demur. "That's all right; but I'm for coaxing
him out here first. I don't want to tap him on the gentleman's rugs; if
I do, I can tell you, it'll ruin 'em, that's all."
He swept his hand across his tongue and gripped his stick tighter.
Jenkins, at one side, bobbed his head up and down and smiled his
admiration of this sentiment. He leaned nearer to me.
"Just beckon him out, sir," his whisper advised. "Just tell him you want
to show him something in the hall--cat, or anything will do. Just so you
get him past the furniture and rugs, sir."
I advanced a step into the room. I expected the old knave to be a bit
dashed, don't you know. Not he; it never disquieted him a bit. Just gave
me a careless leer and went back to the ruby. Somehow I began to feel
riled. I'm not often taken that way, but this old scamp's persistent
audacity and impudence went beyond anything I had ever heard of.
"What in thunder's the matter with you, son?" he murmured, squinting
hideously at the jewel. "You prowl around like you had a pain." Then he
went right on:
"Say, did you ever see anything so corking fine?" He looked up, holding
the ruby in the light. "And to think how little I dreamed of scooping
anything like that when I came in here to-night!"
By Jove, this was a little too much, even for an easy-going chap like
myself! The jolly worm will turn, you know.
Dash me, before I knew what I was doing even, I had moved to his side
and jerked the ruby from his hand. My face felt like a hot-water bottle
as I did it.
"You haven't got it yet," I said, "and I'll take devilish good care you
don't get it."
He fell back as though from a blow.
"Why--why, old chap! Why, Lightnut!" he gasped. "What's the matter--what
makes you look at me like that?"
"Your liberties have gone just a bit too far, don't you know," I said,
looking steadily in his fishy old eye. "I've had enough of you, by Jove,
that's all!"
He stared at me, and I could hear him breathing like a blacksmith's
bellows. I would never have thought he had such lungs.
Slowly his hand came out, and dash me if it wasn't shaking like he had
the delirium what's-its-name. But for his tan, his face would have been
as white as his hypocritical old whiskers.
"Is this some infernal joke?" His face summoned a sickly smile that
almost instantly faded. His hand fell back to his side. "Why, old
fellow, you don't think that way about me, do you? As for the ruby, I--I
don't want it now--I just want you to accept my apology for anything
I've done, and--and let me get away."
There was a short laugh from the doorway.
"Likely enough," said Officer O'Keefe, his big figure swinging forward
with long strides. "Keep him covered, Tim!"
He planted himself between us with a grin.
"You're 'it' again, Foxy! Jig's up. Will you go quietly?"
It did me good to see how completely the old scoundrel was taken back.
His wide distended bleary eyes shifted from O'Keefe to me and back
again. It was a perfect surprise.
I motioned to Jenkins to close the door of my friend's bedroom. So far,
he had evidently slept serenely through all the trouble, and, if
possible, I wanted to avoid arousing him now. For a fat man, Billings
had the deuce of a temper when stirred up over anything like an
imposition upon him, and it would only add to the confusion for him to
appear on the scene and learn about his wallet and his treasured ruby
that I had rescued.
Foxy Grandpa's face had been rapidly undergoing a change. From pallor to
pink it went; and then from pink to red. Now it was becoming scarlet. He
threw his head back and faced me angrily.
"Lightnut, will you tell me what the hell this means?" And his heavy
voice thundered.
"Here! Here! That'll be enough o' that," cried Officer O'Keefe sharply.
"None of your grand-stand play here, or it'll be the worse for you. And
no tricks, Braxton, or--"
He clutched his stick menacingly.
"Braxton!" snorted the old fellow. "Why, you born fool, my name's not
Braxton!"
"Not now," grinned O'Keefe. "Say, what _is_ your name now, Foxy?"
"My name--" roared Foxy Grandpa, and paused abruptly. He looked rather
blankly from one officer to the other.
"See here; do I understand I'm under arrest?" he inquired.
"You certainly are talking, Foxy," chuckled O'Keefe.
"Then my name's Doe--John Doe," and I thought the fellow's quick glance
at me held an appeal. Of what sort, I had no idea.
"And what, may I ask, is the charge?" he asked again, with what was
apparently a great effort at calmness.
"Oh, come now, Braxton," said the officer in a tone of disgust, "stop
your foolery; you're just using up time. Ain't it enough that you're in
this building and in this gentleman's rooms?"
"In his rooms!" exploded Foxy Grandpa. "Why, you lunkhead, this
gentleman will tell you I am his guest!" He turned to me with a sort of
angry laugh.
"Tell him, Lightnut," he rasped. "I've had enough of this!"
The big policeman's features expanded in a grin, while Tim doubled
forward an instant, his blue girth wabbling with internal appreciation
of the Foxy one's facetiousness; and the janitor snickered.
Jenkins looked shocked. As for me, dash it, I never so wished for my
monocle, don't you know!
O'Keefe's head angled a little to give me the benefit of a surreptitious
wink.
"Oh, certainly," he said, his voice affecting a fine sarcasm; "if the
gentleman says you're his _friend_--"
"He's no friend of mine," I proclaimed indignantly. "Never saw him
before in my life."
Instead of being confounded, the artful old villain fell back with a
great air of astonishment and dismay. By Jove, he managed to turn fairly
purple.
"Wha-a-t's that?" he gasped stranglingly and clutching at the collar of
his pajamas. "Say that again, Dicky."
I looked at him severely.
"Oh, I say, don't call me 'Dicky,' either," I remonstrated quietly.
"It's a name I only like to hear my intimate friends use."
He kind of caught the back of a chair and glared wildly at me from under
his bushy wintry eyebrows. The beefy rolls of his lower jaw actually
trembled.
"Don't you--haven't you always classed me as that, Dic--er--Lightnut?"
he sort of whispered.
By Jove, the effrontery of such acting fairly disgusted me. I looked him
over from head to foot with measured contempt. "I don't know you at
all," I said coldly, turning away.
"Ye gods!" he wheezed, clutching at his grizzled hair.
CHAPTER XII
I SEND A MAN TO JAIL
The two policemen shifted impatiently.
"That'll about do, Foxy," growled O'Keefe. "It's entertaining, but
enough of a thing--"
But the old duffer caught his sleeve.
"Wait!" he panted. "One second--wait--just one second!"
He looked at Jenkins and ducked his neck forward, swallowing hard.
"Jenkins," he said with a sickly smile. "You--you see how it is with
Lightnut--poor fellow! None of us ever thought he would go off that bad
though. But, as it is, I guess you're the one now who will have to set
me right with these people. You'll have to stand for me."
Jenkins looked alarmed. He addressed the officers eagerly:
"S'help me," he cried, his glance impaling the prisoner with scorn, "I
never see this party before in the ten years I been in New York!"
Did that settle the fellow? By Jove, not a bit; his jolly nerve seemed
inexhaustible!
He blinked a little; and then with a roar he jumped for Jenkins, but
O'Keefe shoved him back. Panting and struggling between the two
officers, and fairly at bay at last, the desperate old man seemed to
determine one last bluff, don't you know, and with the janitor.
"Here, you," he bellowed, as the man dodged behind Jenkins. "You have
seen me come in this building often! Tell 'em so, or I'll kill you!"
The little man turned pale, but came up pluckily.
"If--if I had," he stammered, "you never would have come in again, if I
knew as much about you as I do now. I assure you, gents, I never laid
eyes on this man before."
"Well, I'll be--"
He broke off and seemed to fall out of the grasp of the men backward
into a big chair. Couldn't quit his jolly acting, it was clear to me,
even when he had played his last card.
"Is everybody crazy, or am I?" he said, brushing his hand across his
forehead; and dashed if the perspiration didn't stand on it in big
drops, clear up into his old bald pate.
"See here," he broke out again, addressing O'Keefe, "send for somebody
else in this building; send for--" He seemed to deliberate.
The policeman laughed derisively.
"Likely we'll be hauling people out of bed at this hour, isn't it," he
sneered, "just to let you keep up this fool's game!" He leveled his
stick menacingly. "Now, looky here, Braxton!" he exclaimed sternly.
"I'm being easy with you because you're a gray-headed old man, but--"
By Jove, it was plain he had struck a sensitive point!
"Gray-headed old man!" shouted the fellow, coming out of the chair like
a rubber ball, and pointing to his reflection in the long mirror. "Does
that look like gray hair--that red topknot? It'll _be_ gray, though, if
this infernal craziness goes on much longer--I'll say that much!" And
back he flopped into the chair.
The two officers exchanged glances, and, by Jove, they looked ugly!
"Call for the wagon, Tim," said O'Keefe shortly, indicating the 'phone.
"The fool's going to give trouble. Kahoka Apartments, tell them. Hurry;
let's get him to the street."
He made a dive at the figure in the chair and jerked him forward.
But his grip seemed to slip and he only moved his prisoner a few inches.
He tried again with about the same result.
"Get a move on, Tim," he said pantingly. "He's bigger, somehow, than he
looks, and awful heavy; it'll take both of us. Get up, Braxton, unless
you want the club!"
The man settled solidly in the depths of the chair.
"Club and be hanged!" he replied with a snap of his jaw. "I won't go in
any dirty police wagon--that's flat! You may take me in a hearse first.
Get a cab or a taxi, if I have to go with you!"
"Gamey old sport, anyhow, by Jove!" I thought with sudden admiration.
Couldn't help it, dash it! Heart just went out to him, somehow.
I gently interposed as O'Keefe prepared to lunge again.
"I'll stand the cab for him, officer," I said with a smile, "if your
rules, don't you know, or whatever it is, will allow."
I added in a lowered voice:
"Makes it devilish easier for you, don't you know, and avoids such a
jolly row. And--er--I want to ask you and your friend to accept from me
a little token of my appreciation."
The policeman exchanged a glance with Tim and considered.
"Well, sir," he said, "as to the cab, of course if you're a mind to want
to do that, it's your own affair."
He turned to his companion.
"Just cancel that, Tim," he directed. "Call a four-wheeler."
"Thank you, Lightnut," put in the old man gratefully. "You _have_ got a
grain of decency left, by George, after all!"
Meantime, Jenkins was answering my inquiry.
"I don't believe, sir, you have a bit of cash in the house. You told me
so when you were retiring."
By Jove, I remembered now! The poker game in the evening!
I was wondering whether they could use a check, when I spied Billings'
wallet on the table.
The very thing, by Jove!
Examination showed, first thing, a wad of yellow-backs, fresh from the
bank. I peeled off two and pushed them into the officer's hand.
"This belongs to a friend of mine," I remarked; "but it's just the same
as my own, don't you know, and he won't mind. Dash it, we're just like
brothers!"
A howl of maniacal laughter from the old fool in the chair startled us
both.
"Regular Damon and Pythias, damn it!" he gabbled, grinning with hideous
face contortions. "One for all, and all for one! And just help yourself;
don't mind me. Why--_hell_!"
O'Keefe prodded him sharply in the shoulder with his night stick.
"Stop your skylarking now, Foxy," he admonished angrily, "and come on.
Here the gentleman's gone and put up his money for a cab for you and you
ought to want to get out of his way so he can rest."
"He's sure been kind to you," supplemented Tim, whose eye had noted the
passing of the yellow boys.
"Kind!" mocked the old geezer, showing his scattered teeth in a horrible
grin. "Why, he's a lu-lu, a regular Samaritan!"
"No names!" warned O'Keefe, slightly lifting his night stick. "Come on
to the street--you seem to forget you're under arrest."
He added hastily:
"And I ought to have warned you that anything you may say, Foxy--"
"Oh, you go to--Brooklyn!" snarled Foxy. "For two pins I'd knock your
block off, you fat-headed Irish fool! Think I'm going down to the
sidewalk without my clothes?"
"Are your clothes somewhere in this building?" I asked with some
sympathy.
He whirled on me sneeringly and jeered like a jolly screech owl:
"Oh, no; not exactly _in_ the building--they're on the flagpole on the
roof, of course! He-he-he! Bloody good joke, isn't it?"
I sat on the edge of the table wearily; and, catching the policeman's
eye, shrugged my shoulders significantly.
"You're right, sir," he said apologetically. "We won't fool a second
longer. Here, you take that side, Tim. Let's pull!"
And they did pull, but, by Jove, they couldn't raise him.
"Queerest go I ever see," Tim gasped. "He ain't holding on to nothing,
is he? And, O'Keefe, he _feels big_!"
"Pshaw, it's not that," the other panted; "it's just the way he's
sitting. Why, you can _see_ he ain't so very big." He nodded to Jenkins
and the janitor. "Here, you two! Help us, can't you?"
And with one mighty, united heave, they brought the loudly protesting
old man to his feet and held him there. O'Keefe faced me.
"Might be well to take a look around, sir, and see if you think of
anything else he's stolen, before we take him off."
"Good idea, Lightnut!" Old Braxton stopped struggling and whirled his
head toward me, his face almost black with rage. "Ha, ha! Why don't you
have me searched? There's not a pocket in these damn pajamas!"
"Anything whatever, sir, we'll have him leave behind," said O'Keefe.
"By Jove!" I don't know how I ever managed to say it. Fact is, things
had just suddenly spun round before me like a merry what's-its-name. For
I _did_ recognize something! The old fellow's unabashed reference to
pajamas was what brought it to my attention.
"Ha!" O'Keefe nodded. "There _is_ something! Just say the word, sir."
I looked helplessly at Jenkins, and then I saw that of a sudden he
recognized them, too. His eyes rolled at me understandingly.
"What is it, sir?" demanded O'Keefe respectfully. "The law requires--"
I swallowed hard. "It--it's the pajamas," I said faintly.
The old rascal uttered a roar and tried to get at me.
"You cold-blooded scoundrel!" he bellowed. "So this is why--"
But here a jab of the night stick took him in the side with a sound like
a blow on a punching bag. Words left the old man and he gasped
desperately for breath. O'Keefe tried to shake him.
"Did you get those pajamas in here?" he demanded fiercely, and he drew
back his stick as though for another jab. But the old geezer nodded
quickly, glaring at me and trying to wheeze something.
"That's enough," said the officer. He turned to me. "You recognize them,
do you, sir?"
"I--I think so," I stammered, looking at Jenkins, who nodded. "They
belong to a friend of mine who--a--must have left them here."
"I see." He fished out a note-book. "Mind giving me the name, sir? Just
a matter of form, you know--" He licked his pencil expectantly.
"Oh, I say, you know--" I gasped at Jenkins. "I don't think she--I--"
"Certainly not, sir," affirmed Jenkins, solemnly looking upward.
"She?" The note-book slowly closed, then with the pencil went back into
the officer's pocket. "Excuse _me_, sir. H'm!"
"H'm!" echoed Tim apologetically. Then they both glared at Foxy.
The old man just snarled at them. He was like a dog at bay.
"All right!" he hissed. "You just try to take them off--I'll kill
somebody, that's all. Think I'm going to make a spectacle of myself?"
Jenkins whispered to me.
"To be sure," I said aloud. "He might as well wear them now to the
station. Just so he returns them when he gets his clothes."
"Very good, sir," said O'Keefe, relieved. "We'll see he does that. Come
along now, Braxton--_shut_ up, I tell you!"
And with all four of them behind the charge, they managed to rush the
loudly protesting old man to the door.
"I _won't_ go without my clothes, I tell you," he raged.
But he did. Fighting, swearing and protesting, the jolly old vagabond
was roughly bundled into the elevator.
"Good night, sir," called O'Keefe as the four of them dropped downward.
"We'll let you know if it seems necessary to trouble you."
Once again inside, Jenkins and I just stared at each other without a
word, we were that tired and disgusted. To me, the only dashed crumb of
comfort in the whole business was the wonderful fact that Billings
seemed to have slept like a jolly Rip through the whole beastly row.
Very softly I opened his door again, so that the breeze flowed through
once more. Jenkins put out the lights, and I stood there listening, but
could hear no sound within the room, for the street below was already
heralding the clamor of the coming day.
Jenkins' whisper brushed my ear as I moved away:
"Sleeping like a baby, ain't he, sir?"
CHAPTER XIII
FRANCES
By Jove, it seemed to me I had been asleep about a minute when I saw the
sunlight splashing through the blinds.
Jenkins stood beside me with something in his hand.
"Didn't hear me, did you, sir?" he was asking. "I said I thought the
address looked like Mr. Billings' handwriting. And he's gone, sir."
"Gone?"
I sat up, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. I had a befogged notion that
Jenkins looked a little queer.
"Yes, sir. He's not in his room, nor in the apartment anywhere."
"Eh--how--what's that?" For Jenkins' hand extended an envelope.
"Perhaps you would like to read this now, sir."
It was from Billings--I knew his fist in an instant. It was very short
and without heading. In fact, above his name appeared just a half-dozen
penciled words, heavily underscored, and without punctuation:
Damn you send me my clothes
"His clothes?" I looked perplexedly at Jenkins.
He was looking a little pale and held his eyes fixedly to the picture
molding across the room. He coughed gently.
"Yes, sir," he uttered faintly; "they're in his room, but _he_ ain't."
"By Jove!" I remarked helplessly. And just then I remembered something
that brought me wide awake in an instant.
I questioned eagerly:
"I say--that desk lamp in there, Jenkins--did you switch it on in the
night? And the doors I found open--know anything about them?" And
Jenkins' blank expression was the reply.
"By Jove, Jenkins!" I gasped.
Jenkins compressed his lips. "Exactly, sir."
"Er--what were you thinking, Jenkins?" I questioned desperately. And I
think Jenkins' stolidity wavered before my anxious face.
"It ain't for me to be thinking anything, sir--besides, the messenger's
waiting--but--" His hand sought his pocket.
He stepped back, leaving something on the stand by my bed.
"What's that?" I questioned in alarm. "Another note?"
"No, sir--not exactly, sir. But if I may suggest--without offense,
sir--that you fill it out, I will see that it gets to him."
"Him? Who's him--he, I mean?"
"Doctor Splasher, sir, the temperance party I was speaking of. I've
already filled out mine, and I'm going to put one in for Mr. Billings
when I send the clothes." From the doorway he turned a woebegone
countenance toward me. "It's heartrending, sir--if I may be permitted to
say so--to think of a nice gentleman like Mr. Billings wandering over to
the club with nothing on but red pajamas."
But when I telephoned they stated that Mr. Billings had not been at the
club since last evening. Some one who answered the 'phone thought Mr.
Billings was with his friend, Mr. Lightnut, in the Kahoka Apartments.
And, of course, I knew jolly well he was not.
As I turned from the telephone, something in Jenkins' expression
arrested my attention.
"Well?" I said impatiently, for he has so many devilishly clever
inspirations, you know; and, dash it, I like to encourage him.
"Pardon, sir, but don't you think--" Here he looked straight up at the
electrolier and coughed. "About Mr. Billings, sir; I was going to
suggest that though he isn't over at the club, he's _somewhere_, sir."
Why, dash it, I thought _that_ jolly likely, myself! I said so.
"Yes, sir," said Jenkins darkly. "And Mr. Billings usually knows _where_
he is. I guess, sir, he's in this neighborhood--h'm!"
I just sat staring at him a minute, thinking what a devilish wonderful
thing intuition is for the lower classes.
"By Jove, Jenkins!" I said; "then you think--"
"I think Mr. Billings, sir, might prefer to find himself--h'm! Yes,
sir." Jenkins lifted the breakfast tray with deliberation, removed it
from the room, and returned, moving about the furniture and busying
himself with an air of mystery. Dash it, I knew he had up his sleeve
some other devilish clever notion, and so presently I spoke up just to
touch him off.
"By Jove!" I remarked.
"Yes, sir." Jenkins rested the end of the crumb brush on the table and
considered me earnestly. "You know, Mr. Lightnut, last night as Mr.
Billings was retiring, he says to me: 'Jenkins, Mr. Lightnut has
promised to go up home with me to-morrow for the week end. There's a
tenner coming your way if he doesn't forget about it. He's to go
_to-morrow_, now, mind you, Jenkins; and it don't matter _what_ comes
up. _You_ see that he goes up to-morrow.'"
"By Jove!" I said as he paused, and I screwed my monocle tighter and
nodded. "I see."
Of course I didn't see, but I knew the poor fellow was driving at
something, and I wanted to give him a run.
"Exactly, sir." And he stood waiting. "So, shall I pack, sir? You'll
want to take the four-ten express, I suppose?"
By Jove, it was the most amazingly, dashed clever guess I ever knew
Jenkins to get off! Fact! I knew that if there was one thing more than
another in all the world that I wanted to do, it was to take that
four-ten express. To think of seeing Frances again, and _to-day_!
Of course, it was quite clear that Billings must have anticipated the
possibility of something unusual, and that was why he had impressed a
sort of personal responsibility upon Jenkins--kind of tipping him off,
as it were, so he would be sure to see that I got off in case he did not
show up himself. It was very easy to see this, especially as Jenkins saw
it that way, too, but what made it specially so awfully jolly easy to
see was the fact that I _wanted_ to go, you know.
So I let Jenkins shoot a wire up to Billings, stating my train, and I
just had to chuckle as in my mind's eye I saw old brazen face Jack
coming down to the station to meet me, and just ignoring his going off
in the middle of the night in my pajamas. By Jove, perhaps he would
bring _her_ down to the train in his car, so I would be sure not to ask
him any questions!
I left Jenkins to travel by a later train, and a little after four I was
whirling above Spuyten Duyvil and looking about the chair-car to see if
there was any one I knew. But, by Jove, there was hardly a soul in the
car--nobody except just women, you know, and these filled the whole
place. And they were talking about all sorts of dashed silly things.
Most of them were devilish pretty as the word goes, but, of course, not
a patch on _her_. Oh, well, of course, they _couldn't_ be that! Don't
know how they were behind me, you know--too much trouble to turn round
and fix my glass. So I just took the range in front, looking at the tops
of the hats and the chairs and wondering if women would ever become
extinct like that bird--the great what's-its-name, you know.
"By Jove, _she_ could be spared!" I thought, studying a young woman who
stood in the aisle beside me. She was rather heavy set--what you might
call egg-shaped. Her face and her heavy glasses seemed to proclaim a
mission in life, and the dowdyish cut of her rig and the reckless way it
was hurled on made it plain that she was on to the fact that nature had
made a blunder in her sex, and she wanted the world to _know_ she knew.
She was talking to the lady immediately behind me. At least, I
discovered after five minutes that she was talking. By Jove, up to that
time, I thought she was canvassing for a book! The other never got in a
word, don't you know. And I was getting devilish tired of it and wishing
she would move on, when she shifted, preparatory to doing so, and raised
her voice:
"Very well, then, if you don't care to come, I think I will go forward
again and finish the discussion with Doctor Jennie Newman upon the
metamorphoses of the primordial protoplasms. Watch out for Tarrytown
now, Frances."
Tarrytown! Frances! By Jove, my heart skipped a beat!
The other murmured something.
Her voice! Her blessed, sweet voice, of which every syllable, every
shade, was indented in my memory like the record of a what's-its-name!
By Jove, my Frances, and right behind me!
All I could do to sit still a minute longer, but I knew jolly well if I
turned now I would be introduced to the freak and lose I couldn't tell
how many precious moments with my dear one. So I sat low in the chair,
polishing my monocle, you know, and noting with satisfaction that my
part reflected all right in the little strip of mirror. I tried to get a
glimpse of her in it, too, but all I could see was a glorious white
hat--a stunning Neapolitan, flanked with a sheaf of wild ostrich plumes.
And then the freak left. I watched her spraddle down the aisle and out
through the little corridor before I dared risk the accident of a
backward turn of that funny green hat.
Then, when all was safe, I took a deep breath, gripped hard the arms of
the chair, and whirled suddenly around.
"Frances!" I whispered. "My darling!"
CHAPTER XIV
"YOU NEVER SAW ME IN BLACK"
"Oh!" she gasped faintly.
That was all she said at first, her big blue eyes wide distended, her
white-gloved wrists curving above the chair-arms as though to rise. Easy
to see she was completely floored at seeing me.
And as it was her move, I just sat kind of grinning, you know, and
holding her tight with my monocle.
Then her mouth twitched a bit; next her head went up and I heard again
that delicious birdlike carol of a laugh. Her eyes came to rest upon the
hat in my hand. I had slipped my Harvard band around it, remembering the
admiration she had expressed for our colors.
"Oh!" she said again, and she looked at me hesitatingly. "Mr. Jones, is
it not--or is it--"
I chuckled. "Mr. Smith, you know," I said. "Mr. Smith, of course."
And then I just went on chuckling, for I thought it so devilish clever
of her, so humorous. And just then I thought of a dashed good repartee:
"Months--so many months, you know, since we met!" And I thought it
delightful the way she puckered her lovely little forehead and looked me
over. But she just looked so devilish enticing, I couldn't keep it up
myself. I leaned nearer and spoke behind my hat, trying to look the love
I felt.
"Didn't expect to see me, did you?"
She looked at me oddly and bit her lip. But her eyes were dancing and
the delicious dimple in her cheek twitched on the verge of laughter. She
shook her head.
"Indeed I did not." And again came that odd look in her face as though
she were studying, kind of balking, don't you know. By Jove, she was
perfectly dazzling!
"My dearest!" slipped softly from me as I held the hat.
She stared. Then once more that canary peal of merriment.
"Oh, dear!" Then her face sobered and she almost pouted. "Now you
mustn't--please, _really_--it gets so tiresome. Don't you American, or
rather, you Harvard men, ever talk anything to a girl but love? Why,
it's absurd." She smiled, but her lashes dropped reproof. By Jove, I was
taken back a little! Evidently she was piqued with me about something,
but what the devil was it? And then I thought I had it.
I slipped nearer--to the edge of the chair.
"I didn't know you were in town to-day--'pon honor, I didn't. Billings
never said a word about it," I explained. "Why, dash it, I would have
given _anything_ to have known."
She looked at me with a queer little smile, stroked her little lip with
the point of one gloved finger and looked across the river at the
Palisades. Dash the Palisades! Never could see any sense in them,
anyhow!
"Oh, thank you, but Elizabeth and I didn't know ourselves until last
evening that we would make the New York trip. She wanted to hear a
suffragette lecture at the Carnegie, and I had some shopping to do."
And she just gave me one of those calm, self-contained, thoroughbred
sort of smiles that are harder to get past than a six-foot hedge. What
the deuce _was_ the matter with the girl? Something had changed her; yet
I knew that nothing could really change her at heart--never.
But it was certain that she was put out about something. I would just
have to play her easy and try to find out what it was. I remembered
hearing Pugsley say--and he has had no end of experience with them--that
when women are put out they expect you to find out what it is, no matter
how devilishly improbable or unreasonable it may be.
And just then I remembered another clever idea of Pugsley's--what he
said was a corking good way of diverting their minds.
"I say, you know," I said suddenly--and though I threw a whole lot of
enthusiasm into my face in carrying out his idea, I didn't have to try
very hard--"I think that's a ripping gown. White is ever so much more
your style than--than--"
By Jove, I swallowed just in time! But it had roused her. I could see
her brighten.
"Oh!" she said. "Let me see--what _is_ it you remember?" And she kind of
muttered, "Perhaps I can tell from that--"
She paused expectantly.
"Oh, I say, you know!" And I twirled the hat, feeling a bit rattled. Why
the deuce did she want to rub it in?
"But I want you to tell me." Her beautiful eyes were teasing.
"_You_ know--in black." I twirled the hat faster.
"_Black!_" She stared, her exquisite lips standing apart like the two
petals of a rose. "Why, I never wore black in my life. You _know_ you
never saw me in black."
I felt hurt. I couldn't blame her for wanting to appear to forget about
it, but still--
She must have seen my face fall, for I know, by Jove, I could just feel
it kind of collapse, I was that hurt and disappointed. Her face softened
kindly and I took courage, for my devilishly alert mind just then hit
upon another explanation. I recalled that she had thoughtlessly left the
pajamas in my rooms. I also realized with dismay that Foxy Grandpa had
promised, or rather the officers had promised for him, that they should
be returned promptly. And, by Jove, I had forgotten all about them!
"Never mind," I said, thinking aloud, as I frequently do. "I'll
telephone about them as soon as we get to Wolhurst." Then a terrible
shock struck me. "Oh, I say, you didn't have your name on them, did
you?"
"On what?" How kindly, even if quizzically, she was regarding me! The
big white hat shifted an inch or two nearer. I realized with joy that
she was beginning to forget about being put out with me.
"Why--" I looked about cautiously and dropped my voice, though it was
not likely any one could hear above the quiver of the train. "Why, in
your black pajamas you left in my rooms."
A kind of little gasp was all I heard, and then she was on her feet and
looking--not at me, but above my head--looking away off down the length
of the car. Somehow--why, I couldn't understand--I had a weird, horrible
feeling of abasement, as though I had killed a child, or had done some
other dashed unreasonable thing like that. Her face had flushed but now
was deadly white. And then, by Jove, I saw she was looking for another
chair.
I jumped up at once and moved into the aisle.
"I'm so sorry," I said miserably, "so sorry, dear, I hurt you. I didn't
mean ever to speak of the pajamas. I knew you wanted to forget about the
other night, and I knew you wanted _me_ to forget, too--"
"Oh, please--" She shrank back, her beautiful eyes like those of a
frightened deer. But it was the last car, and I blocked the aisle. I
didn't realize at the time that I was doing it. It came to me afterward,
and was one of the things I kicked myself about for hours, more or less.
Just at the moment I was so dashed wild about setting myself right with
her. The only other thing I had presence of mind to remember was the
nearness about us of a lot of beady-eyed cats, and so I drew nearer and
lowered my voice so none could hear. For I had another feeling of
inspiration as to what really was the matter with her!
Matter! I should say, rather! She was beginning to look
angry--splendidly angry--her eyes just blazing blue fire. I knew I would
have to get in my explanation quickly, and what's more, if what Pugsley
thought was true, I would have to hit the jolly nail on the head or else
everything was off, you know.
"Why, Frances--sweetheart," I pleaded softly--just loud enough for her
to hear above the train, "I know you are put out with me because you
found me gone the next morning, but honestly, dear, I acted for the
best--indeed, I did." And to be on the safe side, I profited by another
inspiration: "And, my darling girl, I'll never mention the pajamas and
the other night--never any more--as long as we live, nor the cigarettes
nor cigars nor whisky. Why, I don't care if you--"
"Tarrytown--all out for Tarrytown!" came in a high tenor voice from the
end of the car, and something bowled down the aisle and brushed me
aside. It was the frump.
"Come on, Frances!" she exclaimed sharply; "our station." Next instant
they were streaking it for the door, with me a good second. I saw
Frances look behind once with--oh, such a look! Dashed if it didn't
shrivel me, you know--that sort. And, by Jove, I knew Pugsley was right,
and that I had failed to put the ball over!
I was not six feet behind as they scrambled through the station to the
other side where a large car stood panting. I saw Frances clutch the
frump's arm and whisper something, and I heard the frump's reply, for
her voice was loud and strongly masculine.
"Crazy?" she rasped. "Nonsense! Drunk, more likely. Most of them are
half the time."
I didn't have time to see what she referred to, for just then we reached
the side of the car. I didn't see a thing of Billings, but the chauffeur
jumped to the ground and received the ladies and their bags. He seemed
to me devilish familiar, too. By Jove, the way he held my darling's hand
was the most infernally audacious, outrageous thing I ever beheld! I
should have liked to punch his head. He helped them into the tonneau and
was so busy with his silly jackass chatter that he closed the door
before he turned and saw me. I was just standing there, leaning a little
forward with my cane, you know, and fixing my monocle reproachfully on
Frances--trying to get her eye.
And then, by jove, I felt a blow on my shoulder that almost bowled me
over, for I had my legs crossed, you know.
"Well, I'll be hanged--it's Dicky!" And he was grinning at me like a
what's-its-name cat. And with the grin I recognized him. It was the
fresh young fool who had been so devilish familiar at the pier the
morning Frances left.
Then he banged me again, dash it, and tried to get my hand, but I put it
behind me. But he did get my arm, and he turned toward the car. His
voice dropped.
"See here, I want you to meet--Eh?" He broke off, staring at the frump,
who was making signs with her eyes, frowning and beckoning him with her
green flower-pot. He left me, murmuring something, and stepped to the
running-board. I could see the flower-pot bobbing about energetically
and twice Frances nodded, it seemed to me reluctantly.
"Crazy--drunk? Pshaw, you're batty!" he said to the frump rudely. Then I
heard another murmur and his harsh voice rose again: "Yes--Lightnut, I
tell you--Dicky Lightnut. Yes--Jack Billings' great friend. You just
wait till he's back from the city, and if he don't get upon his
hind--Eh, what? His name is _Smith_? Rats!"
All this time I was just standing there, trying to catch Frances' eye.
I felt sure if I could catch her eye she would see how devilish sorry I
was. I moved back a few feet, for, dash it, without a sign from her, I
had no idea now, of course, of considering myself as one of the party.
Not finding Billings with the car, and the information I caught that he
was still in the city, just left me high and dry, you know.
"All right, Miss Smarty," the yellow-topped chauffeur rasped, addressing
the frump, "I'll just show you!"
He turned about and jerked his head.
"Oh, Dicky! Here, just a minute, old chap--will you?"
Of course I took no notice of him whatever. In fact I looked in the
other direction.
"Lightnut!" he called. I just stared up at the castle on the hill. I
felt devilish annoyed, though. I recalled a conversation the other day
at the club in which Van Dyne remarked that the intimacy affected now by
chauffeurs was growing insufferable. Declared his man had asked him for
a light that morning.
The fellow stared a little; then he came toward me, smirking in a
jocular, impertinent way.
"Say, stop your kidding, old man," he muttered; "girls have no sense of
humor, you know. Come along--I've just been telling them you are my best
friend."
I stole another look at the car, but Frances avoided me; so I came to a
decision. I turned shortly on the driver.
"See here now, my good fellow," I said sharply, "you stop subjecting
those ladies to annoyance. Drive on, or I'll report you to my friends."
He stared--seemed to be trying to stare me out of countenance, in fact.
Then the grin slowly faded.
"Why, Dicky!" he exclaimed in an aggrieved tone, "don't you remember
me--don't you know me?"
"I certainly do not," I answered with decision. I felt my face getting
red with vexation. "And what's more, my name is not 'Dicky.'"
His hand slowly swept his chin and he whistled.
"Wha--Well, I'll be jiggered!" He whirled toward the car.
"On me, this time, I guess! You're right!"
Then his face clouded and he moved down upon me.
"Here, you get along now about your business, whoever you are!" His hand
waved as though sweeping me away. "I've a mind to kick you for annoying
that young lady."
He looked toward Frances and I could see he was showing off. But I
thought she looked a bit disgusted. As for the frump, she suddenly
opened the door, stepped down and then up again, but this time behind
the steering wheel.
"If you don't come on, I'm going," she said quietly.
"Just a minute," he said, scowling back at her. He faced me.
"Look here, if I hit you once"--he leveled his finger--"well, they'll
have to pick you up with a sponge, that's all!"
But, except for fixing my glass for a better study of Frances, I never
moved. Didn't occur to me as necessary, you know, until she should drive
off. Just stood leaning on my cane and with feet crossed, you know, in
the way I had long ago found was the least exhausting, if one has to
stand at all. But, by Jove, the fellow was right in my face now, almost!
Devilish annoying!
"Did you hear me, you glass-eyed fool?" he barked in my ear. "You
masher! By George, _I'll_ mash you!"
And he looked at Frances again and laughed, but she was looking away off
up at the big stone castle on the Pocantico Hills behind. And I just
reveled in her glorious profile, splashed bright by the golden sunshine
reflected from the Tappan Zee opposite. Incidentally, I was trying in my
mind the three arm movements that must be made as one, and for which, to
learn, I had paid the great master, Galliard of Paris, a thousand francs
in gold.
The car began to edge away.
"All right--coming!" he yelled; and then he launched his blow. But so
rapid--instantaneous, in fact--are the famous three movements of the
great scientist, I don't remember that my eye even shifted its grip
upon the monocle. Therefore, as I came back into the same position again
as his shoulder hit the ground, I was in time to catch my darling's eye
at last just as they curved. And, by Jove, she looked amused--and
pleased.
As for the frump, she frankly and harshly laughed, and then moved up a
speed, just as a south-bound express took the station.
And I swung aboard it, back for little old New York. Didn't see what the
chauffeur did. Wasn't interested, you know, about that.
CHAPTER XV
BILLINGS' SYMPTOMS ALARM ME
"Most infernal outrage of the century, I tell you!" Billings stormed.
For an hour I had sat there in my rooms, limp and bewildered under the
tempest of his wrath. The wild and incoherent sputter over the 'phone
that Jenkins reported upon my return had sent me on a hunt for my
friend. I had found him sullenly dining alone over at the club, and as
soon as I entered he started to bolt from the room. Only through the
greatest pleading had I managed to coax him back to my chambers, hoping
I might screw out of him some explanation.
I had received it, by Jove!
Of course, I recognized it all as impossible and crazy, you know, but
when I said so to Billings his remarks were so violent, and he turned
such a dangerous apoplectic purple, dashed if I didn't renege.
"But then the old man, you know!" I protested weakly.
Billings leveled his big arm at me, mouthing wordlessly for a minute.
"That--that'll do, about that old man!" he choked at last. "Not--not
another word about _him_!" And finally he collapsed into his seat from
sheer exhaustion. Just sat there panting and glaring at me like a jolly
bulldog.
Gradually he became calmer.
"Tell you what: the only thing that lets you out, Dicky, is the way Van
Dyne and Blakesley did, in turn, when I got them there."
He spoke savagely, but I brightened a little.
"Oh!" I said. "Didn't they recognize you, either?"
Billings' snort made me jump.
"Recognize!" he bellowed. "They went back, mad as hell!"
"By Jove!" I said soothingly.
"That's not all," continued Billings grimly. "I was so sure it was a
put-up job, some asinine, fool joke, I wrote a cautious note to the
governor. After a lot of pleading, I got the fools to send it. He came."
Billings paused dramatically.
"Oh, yes, _he_ came!" he went on, fixing me with an excited eye. "And
when I staggered forward and did the prodigal son act on his neck, he
handed me a punch that jolted off his silk tile. Went straight up in the
air with the whole bunch down there and contracted to do things for them
that will keep him active for a year. Threatened to have _me_ sent up
for forgery--this is my own father now, mind you--forgery of my own
name! Huh!"
Billings strode to the end of the room and back. Then he sat down
again, beating with his foot upon the floor.
"Say, has everybody gone crazy?" he demanded.
I didn't dare say a word, for I had my own opinions, you know, and I
knew it wouldn't do to express them. Only excite him. Best way seemed
just to pretend to swallow it all, you know. Best way always, Pugsley
says, especially with best friends.
"They were pretty nasty after that," Billings went on gloomily; "and
they wouldn't send for any one else. Just had to sit there in that
infernal bastile with nothing on but pajamas and a pair of bedroom
slippers. Every once in a while somebody would come and address me as
'Foxy,' and want me to send for my clothes or else send out and buy
some. Finally, a big brute came and threw me some dirty rags and said
I'd _have_ to put on those or else buy some others. Buy some, Dicky--did
you get that?--_buy_ some!"
"Devilish rude, _I_ say," I commented indignantly. "Who wants to wear
_bought_ clothes? Why, dash it, my tailor says--"
"Pshaw!" Billings whirled his fat head impatiently. "You miss the whole
point, Dicky! I didn't have a cent of _money_; and what's more, I
couldn't get any." He paused. "See? Try to get that, Dicky--make an
effort, old chap."
I did, but, dash it, it was such a rum idea--very oddest thing he had
said--and silly, you know. Fancy any one not being able to send out and
get money! I just got to thinking what a jolly queer idea it was and
lost part of what Billings was saying--something about how he managed to
get them to send a note for his clothes. Here is what I _did_ hear:
"And I had just got into the togs and stuffed the rubies and pajamas out
of sight in my pocket, when the particular brigand who had charge of my
coop came back. He almost threw a fit when he saw me. 'Where's
Twenty-seven?' he wanted to know. And then, before I could say a word,
he blustered up to me with: 'And say, what business _you_ got in here?
Clear out!' And you bet I didn't lose a single golden minute--I cleared.
You should have seen me beat it down that corridor! The fellow followed
me a little, grumbling to himself. Then he called to a cop who was just
coming in: 'Say, O'Keefe, run that young fat freak out of here, will
you? It's one of that bunch of visitors that went through just now.
Fresh thing--snooping into the cells!'
"And so the same cop that brought me there--the very same--was the one
that shoved me out of the door, warning me that I'd best not go poking
into the prisoners' cells again if I knew what was good for me!"
"By Jove!" I ventured sympathetically.
Billings nodded. "Of course, I knew it was a semi-lucid interval with
them all, but for all I knew it might pass any instant and some bat
discover I was a Dutch scrubwoman escaped from Hoboken. So I broke for
the first taxi and hit it up for the club."
Billings took a deep breath and went on:
"By George," he said, laughing nervously. "I felt like a dog with a can
to its tail hunting for a place to hide. Every time a fellow looked at
me I had heart failure until he called me by my own name. Bribed Eugene
to lie about my whereabouts until his face hurt and then I went to bed.
Sneaked out of my hole this evening to get a bite of something, and then
you ran me down.
"And Dicky"--Billings finished excitedly--"I was sure you had come to
drag me back to my dungeon, and I looked behind you, fully expecting to
see those two Irish pirates. If I had, I should have swooned in my soup,
that's all!"
I murmured my sympathy. And, by Jove, I certainly did have a heartache
about him, but of course I couldn't tell him why. I was getting him
quieted--I could see that--and he was so far mollified as to help
himself to a cigar. When he had clipped a V from the end with his knife,
he leaned over and tapped me impressively on the knee with the blade.
"And just think, Dicky," he said, absently emphasizing with the sharp
point of the knife, "there I sat, moneyless--not even a dime, you
know--in a suit of pajamas whose three buttons were worth one hundred
and fifty thousand dollars!"
He fell back, his fat arms eloquently outspreading.
"Can you beat it?" he demanded.
I rubbed my palm on my knee and considered.
Privately, I thought I _could_ beat it--by Jove, I was sure I could! I
knew of a pair of pajamas worth a dashed sight more than money. And I
wondered gloomily where they were. I had telephoned as soon as I stepped
out at the Grand Central Station, and after a bit made them understand
who I was and reminded them that the black pajamas had not been returned
according to promise. And then they told me Foxy Grandpa had escaped,
but as he had nothing else on, they felt sure of rounding him up as soon
as he came out of his hiding-place--probably after dark.
"By the way, old chap," puffed Billings, his poise and good humor
improving under the spell of the cigar, "I was sorry to return the
pajamas torn and dusty and wrinkled as they were. But you see, on
account of the rubies, I was leary about having them pressed or fussed
over. So I wrapped and sealed them myself, just as one does a jewel
package. Got them, did you?"
I stared at Billings through my glass.
"Didn't you get them?" he questioned in alarm.
"Yes, yes--it's all right, old chap," I said hastily and as pleasantly
as I could. "Eugene delivered the box to Jenkins and I opened it myself.
Thought it was--h'm--thought it was something else." Then I proceeded
soothingly: "But you're just a little mistaken about the dust and
wrinkles, old chap--and about them being torn. Ha, ha! Good joke!"
But Billings' face was unresponsive.
"Why, you goop," he said with cheerful contempt, "there's a triangular
tear in the back of the coat you could stick your head through; and one
of the sleeves is in ribbons."
I just opened the drawer of the table and took out the box--glove box, I
think it was--containing the pajamas. I had read something somewhere
about the clearing effect--the reaction, and that sort of thing,
produced sometimes by a shock.
"See for yourself, old chap," I said gently. And I lifted out the
gossamer fabrics and again spread their crimson glory under the lamp.
Billings examined them eagerly, but just looked confounded.
"Don't understand it," he said, biting his nails. "Why, hang it, they
look smooth, too, as though never worn. And the rubies are all right,
too."
He rested his chin upon his hands and gloomed at the red sweep.
I caught a few sentences of his mumbling.
"By George, I'm half a mind to think there's something in the pajamas,"
he muttered--"something uncanny and disagreeable--something they're
alive with!"
I sprang up and back, overturning my chair.
"Good heavens--oh, I say!" I exclaimed in consternation, as I fixed my
glass on the garments. "It's your jail, then, you know--"
His hand checked my reach to the bell push.
"Don't be any more kinds of an ass than you can help, Dicky," he said
with rude irritability. "I'm talking about something else; and I haven't
got any jail, dammit! A station house isn't exactly a jail!"
He reached for another cigar and went off into a brown study, wrapping
himself in clouds of smoke. I thought that maybe if I kept quite still
he might come to himself all right. Meantime, for want of something to
do, and to keep from getting so devilish sleepy, I fell to turning over
the pajamas, admiring their beauty and daintiness and kind of
half-daringly wondering how _she_ would--
And suddenly I made a discovery; and I forgot about keeping still.
"By Jove, Billings!" I exclaimed excitedly. "Here's something inside the
collar--some sort of jolly writing!"
"What's that?" said Billings sharply. He jerked the garment from my hand
and held it in the light. All round the circle within the collar band
ran four or five darker red lines of queer little crisscross characters.
"Chinese laundry marks, you idiot," he commented carelessly. And then he
ducked his head closer with a quick intake of breath.
"By George, Dicky!" he cried, his voice tremulous with some excitement.
"Can't be that either; it's woven in--awfully fine, neat job, too. Now,
what do you suppose--"
He broke off wonderingly.
CHAPTER XVI
AN INSCRIPTION AND A MYSTERY
Billings rubbed his chin perplexedly.
"By jigger, now, I wonder what those hen tracks mean?" he uttered
musingly. Then he looked up at me with sudden animation in his face.
"Look here, Dicky," he exclaimed, "do you happen to know Doozenberry?"
I tried to remember. I shut one eye and studied the marks closely
through my glass, but had to shake my head at last.
"Sorry, old chap; don't seem to remember it at all if I ever did--not a
dashed glimmer of it left." I yawned. "Never tried to keep any of those
college things, you know."
Billings, who had been staring, uttered a rude comment.
"It's not a language, you cuckoo," he snapped; "it's a man. He's a
D.S.--distinguished scientist, you know. What's more, he's one of your
neighbors, right in this building."
"Don't know him," I said a little stiffly. "What's his club?"
Billings all but gnashed his teeth.
"Club, thunder!" he jerked out impatiently. "Why, man, he's a member of
all the great societies of the world--bodies whose rank and
exclusiveness put the blink on all the clubs you or I ever saw. Got a
string of letters after his name like a universal keyboard, and is the
main squeeze, the great scream, among all the scientific push over here
and in Europe. Lots of dough, but off his trolley with learning."
"And in this building?" I said wonderingly. "What's he like?"
For a moment I had a thought of Foxy Grandpa, but the janitor had said
he did not belong in the building. Besides, Billings' next words removed
that clue to the lost pajamas. By Jove, how I did long to ask his advice
about them! Once I was on the point of doing so--had devilish narrow
escape, in fact--but pulled up on the brink. So deuced hard to remember
that anything so delicate and sweet and fetching could be Billings'
sister, you know. I had been wondering for an hour whether I had better
say anything about my adventure up at Tarrytown--wondered if she would
like me to.
"Here, you moon calf, wake up!" Billings' coarse voice brought me back
to the present, and I had to blink and pretend I was listening. "I'm
telling you about Doozenberry! I say you surely must have seen him--you
couldn't miss him in a black cave. Queer-looking old skate, tall as a
street lamp and as thin; looks like a long cylinder of black
broadcloth. So dignified it hurts him."
I reflected.
"Awfully large head," continued Billings, elevating his hands some two
feet apart, "pear-shaped affair--big end up--bumps on it like halves of
grape fruit, porcupine eyebrows, and--"
"Oh, I know," I said, nodding eagerly; "and a little, shriveled--well,
kind of mashed sort of face, eyes beadlike and jolly small. I've got him
now! I've gone down with him in the elevator."
Billings nodded. "You've got him painted," he said drily. "That's the
professor; only, his eyes are anything but 'jolly.' I've ridden in the
elevator with him myself. Always manages to look like he was traveling
with a bad smell!"
"Devilish sensitive, I dare say."
Billings looked at me suspiciously, but I had got hold of the thing I
was trying to recollect and I went on quickly:
"By Jove, you know, I believe Jenkins knows his man--fellow who butlers,
and, I believe, cooks, for him. He and Jenkins belong to the same--how
do they call it?--same club of gentlemen's gentlemen."
Billings brought his fist down. "Let's have Jenkins in," he suggested.
And we did.
"I say, Jenkins," I began, "this Professor Doodle bug above us--"
"Doozenberry!" Billings sharply corrected.
"Well, some jolly rum thing about him, don't you know,
Jenkins--something you said his man told you--remember, eh?"
Jenkins' eyes batted a little.
He cleared his throat. "Why, yes, sir; he told me a lot of funny things
one night, sir. Don't suppose he would have done it, only him and me had
an evening off and we--we--"
Jenkins seemed to hesitate.
"And you went on a bat together," suggested Billings, rubbing his hands
pleasantly.
"It was, sir," Jenkins admitted, looking at me sadly. "Leastways, he
sort o' loosened up as he got--got--"
"Pickled," Billings helped smoothly.
"Quite so, sir; there's some is that way always: some is taken other
ways." Jenkins considered Billings moodily. "The power of the demon rum,
sir."
"Ah, true!" sighed Billings, lifting his eyes.
"This here chap, he got to going on and all but crying about his cursed
hard fate--them's his own words, sir--his cursed hard fate in having to
drink water all the time and eat cow feed--"
"Eat what?"
"I don't know, sir--that's what he called it--something the perfesser
has him fix out of cereals and nuts and sour milk. That's all they have,
sir; and they don't have no cooking, for the perfesser says it breaks
the celluloid--"
"Cellular," corrected Billings.
"Maybe so, sir," demurred Jenkins. "He _said_ celluloid--the celluloid
tissue papers, _he_ called it. And then his having no heat on all winter
and the windows kept open all the time and the snow piling up on his bed
at night kept him with colds all the year. And then, there was the
dampness--"
"_That's_ it, the dampness!" I exclaimed. "Tell him."
"Why, sir, he told me that every night he had to turn down the
perfesser's bed and go all over it with a two-gallon watering can--"
"Watering can!" gasped Billings.
"I'm telling you what he says, sir. Then he covers it all up again, and
in about a half-hour the perfesser turns the covers down; and if it's
what he calls 'fine'--that is, damp all over--he climbs in and sleeps
like a top."
"Cold-water bug, you know," I explained, but Billings shrugged his
shoulders.
"That's all right. Bug or not, he's the goods, all the same. Greatest
ever." He spoke with quiet conviction.
He deliberated a moment and turned to me.
"Tell you what, Dicky: I'm going up and ask him down. He's the one to
give us the right dope on these crazy letters--Eh, what you say,
Jenkins?"
"Beg pardon, sir; I was saying that the perfesser don't visit nobody;
and he never sees nobody but the big lit'ry and scientific sharps."
"Oh, he don't eh?" Billings snorted contemptuously. "Well, Jenkins, I
haven't been a prize fisherman in my time for nothing; I guess I know
how to select my 'fly.' I know what will fetch him: 'Mr. Lightnut's
compliments, and will he be pleased to honor him by passing upon an
Oriental curio of rare scientific interest?'--that sort of merry rot!
Why, you couldn't hold him back with a block and tackle. Oh, you needn't
worry; I'll do the proper curves all right." He turned toward the door.
"And, Jenkins, you come along and work me into the lodge."
"Oh, but dash it," I protested nervously, "he won't come--he'll be
insulted. Why, he'll know as soon as he sees you that you couldn't--"
I checked myself, recalling that the best thing after his recent
exhibition was to avoid every contradiction. And then, by Jove, I knew
that if he became ill and had to go to a hospital or somewhere, it would
be all off with his taking me up to Wolhurst next day.
Billings grinned confidently. "Watch me bring him down here," he said.
And by Jove, he did!
CHAPTER XVII
THE PROFESSOR
Billings ushered in the professor with a flourishing introduction.
The great man never spoke, but gave me the end of one finger, and
devilish grudgingly at that. He just came to anchor and stood there very
straight and stiff, ignoring the chairs thrust toward him from every
point. One hand was stuck in his stiff broadcloth bosom, with elbow
pointing outward, and his great topheavy head reared above us
impressively.
Billings rubbed his hands and bowed and smirked.
"Lovely weather we are having for summer, don't you think, Professor?
Jenkins, a chair for the professor."
He was already hedged in by chairs, but he remained standing. Dash it,
he was staring hard at me, his beady eyes boring like gimlets, don't you
know, and his little shriveled face all puckered up. By Jove, but he
looked sour! Looked like he would bite, or, as Billings said afterward,
would like to, if the human race wasn't poisonous.
"Wonderful stunt, science, isn't it, Professor?" gushed Billings, still
rubbing his hands and grinning like a wild what's-its-name. "Tracing
the orbits of the shooting stars or measuring the animals in the tiny
sewer drop. H'm! Fascinating pursuit! And how marvelous it must be to be
able to classify instantly any specimen of man's or nature's
handiwork--to--a--call the turn, so to speak--right off the bat, as it
were. H'm! We have here to-night--er--"
With his hand upon the pajamas, Billings paused, for the professor paid
no attention--did not even turn round, in fact. He just stood there
staring at me. Billings coughed suggestively.
"H'm! As I was saying, we have with us to-night a specimen," he resumed
a little louder, "I may say an example of something that, while
apparently commonplace and prosaic, is really a rare and unique--"
"Ha--specimen _genus cypripedium_," came in a squeaky bark from the
professor as he held me in his eye. "Linnaeus, 1753. Ha! _Species
acaule_--proper habitat, bogs. Very common--_very_ common, indeed."
He batted at me sourly and seemed disappointed. By Jove, I never felt so
devilish mortified in all my life! Never! I nearly dropped my monocle
and felt myself getting jolly red about the ears. This only seemed to
make it worse.
"Ha--_labellum_ somewhat pinker purple than normal," he proceeded. "H'm!
Unusually fresh specimen."
I looked appealingly at Billings. "Oh, I say, you know!" I exclaimed in
dismay.
Billings had been standing with his mouth agape, but now he made a
stride forward and touched the professor on the arm.
"That's Mr. Lightnut, Professor," he said blandly. "That's not _the_
specimen. H'm! Slight mistake."
Slowly the professor's big head turned on its axis and his little eyes
blinked at Billings nastily.
"I was referring to the orchid in the gentleman's coat," he observed
quietly, and turned back to me.
"Of course! Of _course_!" stammered Billings with eagerness. "My
mistake--one on me. _Stung!_" his lips pantomimed to me.
I addressed the professor hospitably: "Ah! won't you sit down,
Professor?"
He drew back, frowning. "Sit down, sir?" he questioned. And, by Jove, by
this time he showed his teeth. And devilish white, even teeth they were,
too, only they didn't fit.
"I never sit down, sir," he said stiffly; "never!"
"By Jove!" I explained.
"To be sure!" ejaculated Billings, looking extremely silly.
The professor appeared not ungratified with the sensation he had
produced and condescended to smile; that is, if you can call a creasing
and wrinkling like the cracked end of a hard-boiled egg a smile.
"You say, 'sit down,' sir," he said, addressing me. "I ask you, in
turn: Is not 'sitting down' recrudescence back to the primordial?"
So saying, he took a pinch at my shirt front and stepped back again
impressively. Still addressing me, he continued:
"It is such thoughtless indulgence of muscles growing obsolescent that
retards the evolution of our species, a species, sir, which I claim is
coessential in fundamental attributes with contemporaneous amphibia. Ha!
I surprise you, perhaps? Can you note in me a resemblance to a
batrachian?"
I didn't know. And, dash it, I was afraid to chance it. Tried my jolly
best to think what a batrachian was. It came to me like a flash that it
sounded like something in Italy.
"By Jove, you do, though, awfully!" I exclaimed, trying to brighten up
over it. "Doesn't he, Billings? Noticed a resemblance right off, don't
you know."
Billings went to nodding with an air of pleased surprise. Dash me if I
believed he knew what a batrachian was, though, any more than I did. But
Billings never admits anything.
"Sure," he said glibly. "I was half suspecting it; why, look at the
skin, you know--and features!"
"By Jove, yes!" I said, feeling encouraged. "Head, mouth, nose, eyes
and--" I was going to say "hair," but I remembered in time about the
wig.
The professor looked awfully pleased. He gave me a finger again.
"Such perspicacity--ah--is rare in one who looks so--"
He coughed slightly, then resumed:
"How gratifying, indeed, to meet another investigator! A student in
zootomy, no doubt? Ah! Do not deny it; I divined it at once. A
delightful recreation, sir--a game, absorbing but elusive."
"Awfully jolly, you know," I agreed. "Ripping, I say!"
"Surest thing you know," chirped Billings. I wondered if it was anything
like polo.
And then, by Jove, thinking of polo sent me off again thinking of
Frances. Not that she was like polo, dash it, but I wished she could see
me play.
The professor took another pinch from my shirt front and favored me with
a rusty smile.
"Ah!" he said: "You must take time to look into a little monograph of
mine: _Man in Miniature; a Study of the Anthropology of the Frog_. You
regard the frog, of course?"
"Oh, I say, yes--fine, you know!" I answered, my mouth watering. By
Jove! I thought of the devilish good things they got up in season down
at the Cafe Grenouille.
"My dear sir!" The professor bowed to me. "I can not express to you how
gratifying to me this meeting is. I must get a list of your societies
and degrees. So few appreciate the frog; so many, even in the scientific
world, deride my published claim that congenious with man is the _rana
mugiens_ or American bullfrog."
By Jove! they were certainly congenial with me, all right.
"Awfully hard to swallow unless well done, don't you know," I demurred
thoughtfully.
"Truly incredible, sir!"
The professor took another pinch and held it in front of him.
"But I have allowed for that," he added, emphasizing with his other
hand. "My frog brochure meets that difficulty and whets the appetite of
the most mediocre."
"By Jove, Billings!" I exclaimed eagerly, "we must tell Marchand about
it over at the club." I was so devilish tired of his eternal _sauce
delicieuse_, his _sauce aigre_, his _sauce ecossaise_ and the rest,
don't you know.
The professor inclined his head gravely.
"Ha, French! Then Monsieur Marchand has done something with the frog,
has he?" he questioned.
"Twenty-nine different stunts," Billings replied proudly. "I _know_
because I'm on the House Committee. Yes, _sir_, frogs are his specialty;
that man can get more out of a frog than any other living man."
The professor looked a little nettled.
"Oh, indeed!" he said rather coldly.
"I tell you, Professor, he's got 'em _all_ skinned!" Billings enthused.
The remark provoked a contemptuous sniff.
"Undoubtedly, that being the proper condition preliminary to comparative
anatomical study," said the professor loftily. "Then the physical
resemblance to a man becomes startling. I have identified every analogy
with man except the beautiful phenomenon of the beating of the frog
heart twenty-four hours after separation from the body--the living body,
sir. Experiment upon the living human specimen is necessary for
confirmation of the homologous structure of the two hearts, however.
This I have not done--not yet."
He spoke gloomily. I looked at Billings blankly but I found Billings was
looking at me the same way.
Every once in a while he had been lifting the pajamas. He would cough
and open his mouth, but just then the professor would start off again.
Once Billings, with an awfully savage expression, shook his fist at our
visitor's back and danced up and down upon the rug.
"The indifference, not to say prejudice, of the public upon the matter
of human vivisection is heartrending," went on the professor sadly.
"Sir, I have advertised in the 'help wanted' columns of the daily press,
and have interviewed scores without arousing one spark of ambition or
awakening one thrill of gratitude over the opportunity offered to assist
me in the investigation of scientific phenomena. I pleaded, sir; I
reproached; I even showed them the demonstration upon the frog. Did I
move them? Were they affected, do you think?"
I shook my head sympathetically. Seemed the safe thing to do.
"A lot of pikers, by George!" said Billings with an air of indignation.
"Must have been shameless!"
"Deuced indifferent," I ventured. "I should have been regularly cut up."
"Ah! of course you would," cried the professor, lifting another pinch.
"There speaks the intelligent devotee of science! But did they see it
that way? Not at all, sir; they were only indifferent and
ungrateful--they were rude and--ah--boisterous! One savage primate
assaulted me with his bare knuckles. A blow, gentlemen, a blow from the
boasted family of anthropina!"
"Beastly outrage, Professor," growled Billings. "Leave it to me; I know
a chap who's got a pull with the police commissioner, and I'll just tip
him off, by George. It's no matter what family they are or how much they
boasted. It'll be the hurry wagon and the cooler for them, eh, Dicky?"
He gestured to me wildly, nodding his head like a man with the
what's-it-name dance.
"Deuced good idea. Awful rotters, I say," was my comment.
The professor seemed affected by our sympathy. He withdrew from his
pocket a folded handkerchief, slowly opened it and pressed it lightly to
each eye. Then he carefully refolded and replaced it.
"Strange thing, the persistence of the primitive emotions," he said,
sniffing thoughtfully. "Singular how they affect the lachrymal
_apparati_. Peculiarly disagreeable taste, gentlemen, that of tears,
despite their simple elementary composition--ninety-nine and six-tenths
per cent. water, you remember, and the rest a modicum of chloride of
sodium, mucus, soda and phosphates. H'm! Your pardon, gentlemen, for
this digression, but to have sustained a stab under this very roof from
_genus homo_! It is indeed hard."
Here Jenkins, who had been lingering and busying himself about the
apartment, whispered to me from behind:
"It's that dago, sir, that delivers fruit every day."
"Eh?"
"That's the name. I see him going back every morning."
Jenkins moved off, nodding mysteriously, as I stared at him through my
glass. In his way, Billings was speaking words of comfort and all that
sort of thing to the professor.
"Never mind; the law will get 'em for you," he reassured him.
"Ah! that's just where you are in error," sighed our guest. "The law,
sir, will not get a single subject for me. In this age of unrestrained
liberty of all classes, the law lends no aid whatever to science. It is
not as it was in the glorious past when, under imperial patronage,
Vesalius, the great father of anatomy, was protected when by mistake his
scalpel cut the living heart of a Spanish grandee. Times worth while,
gentlemen, those great days of supreme imperialism! Ah! there was no
lack of material available if one stood in a little at court; one had
only to designate a selection and the thing was done. Gracious, gentle
times, my friends! Gone, alas, for ever! Such opportunities are
impossible under a republic."
The professor shook his head and reached for his handkerchief again. But
this time he only blew his nose.
"_Tempora mutantur_," he murmured regretfully, "Eh, gentlemen?"
"True," said Billings, pursing his lips. "Ah, how true!"
"By Jove, ought to be something done, you know," I declared.
"Out of millions, not a single human specimen available," groaned the
professor dismally. "And my instruments ready for over a year."
"Cheer up, sir; you'll have a go yet," Billings encouraged.
"Ah!" The professor's little eyes swept Billings' person critically.
"Perhaps you, sir, would like the privilege--"
Billings
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