Lemme see, I was headed out of Boothbay Harbor, Maine, bound for Roarin' Rocks, wa'n't I? Hold the picture,—me in a white jumper and little round canvas hat with "Vixen" printed across the front, white shoes too, and altogether as yachty as they come. Don't forget young Mr. Payne Hollister at the wheel, either; although whether I'd kidnapped him, or he'd kidnapped me, is open for debate.
Anyway, here I was, subbin' incog for the reg'lar crew, who was laid up with a sprained ankle. All that because I'd got the happy hail from Vee on a postcard. It wa'n't any time for unpleasant thoughts then; but I couldn't help wonderin' how soon Aunty would loom on the horizon and spoil it all.
"So there's a picnic on the slate, eh?" I suggests.
Young Mr. Hollister nods. "I'd promised some of the folks at the house," says he. "Guests, you know."
"Oh, yes," says I, feelin' a little shiver flicker down my spine.
I knew. Vee was a guest there. So was Aunty. The picnic prospects might have been more allurin'. But I'd butted in, and this was no time to back out. Besides, I was more or less interested in sizin' up Payne Hollister. Tall, slim, young gent; dark, serious eyes; nose a little prominent; and his way of speakin' and actin' a bit pompous,—one of them impatient, quick-motioned kind that wants to do everything in a minute. He keeps gettin' up and starin' ahead, like he wa'n't quite sure where he was goin', and then leanin' over to squint at the engine restless.
"Just see if those forward oil cups are full, will you?" says he.
I climbs over and inspects. Everything seems to be O. K.; although what I don't know about a six-cylinder marine engine is amazin'.
"We're slidin' through the water slick," says I.
"She can turn up much faster than this," says he; "only I don't dare open her wide."
I was satisfied. I could use a minute or so about then to plot out a few scenarios dealin' with how a certain party would act in case of makin' a sudden discovery. But I hadn't got past picturin' the cold storage stare before the Hollister place shows up ahead, Payne throttles the Vixen down cautious, shoots her in between a couple of rocky points, and fetches her up alongside a rope-padded private float. There's some steps leadin' up to the top of the rocks.
"Do you mind running up and asking if they're ready?" says Payne.
"Why, no," says I; "but—but who do I ask?"
"That's so," says he. "And they'll not know who you are, either. I'll go. Just hold her off."
Me with a boathook, posin' back to for the next ten minutes, not even darin' to rubber over my shoulder. Then voices, "Have you the coffee bottles?"—"Don't forget the steamer rugs."—"I put the olives on the top of the sandwiches."—"Be careful when you land, Mabel dear."—"Oh, we'll be all right." This last from Vee.
Another minute and they're down on the float, with Payne Hollister explainin', "Oh, I forgot. This is someone who is helping me with the boat while Tucker's disabled." I touches my hat respectful; but I'm too busy to face around—much too busy!
"Now, Cousin Mabel," says young Hollister, "right in the middle of that seat! Easy, now!"
A squeal from Mabel. No wonder! I gets a glimpse of her as she steps down, and, believe me, if I had Mabel's shape and weight you couldn't tease me out on the water in anything smaller'n the Mauretania! All the graceful lines of a dumplin', Mabel had; about five feet up and down, and 'most as much around. Vee is on one side, Payne on the other, both lowerin' away careful; but as she makes the final plunge before floppin' onto the seat she reaches out one paw and annexes my right arm. Course that swings me around sudden, and I finds myself gazin' at Vee over Payne Hollister's shoulders, not three feet away.
"Oh!" says she, startled, and you couldn't blame her. I just has to lay one finger on my lips and shake my head mysterious.
"All right!" sings out Payne, straightenin' up. "Always more or less exciting getting Cousin Mabel aboard; but it's been accomplished. Now, Verona!"
As he gives her a hand she floats in as light as a bird landin' in a treetop. I could feel her watchin' me curious and puzzled as I passes the picnic junk down for Hollister to stow away. Course, it wa'n't any leadin'-heavy, spotlight entrance I was makin' at Roarin' Rocks; but it's a lot better, thinks I, than not bein' there at all.
"Oh, dear," sighs Mabel, "what a narrow, uncomfortable seat!"
"Is it, really?" asks Vee. "Can't it be fixed someway, Payne?"
"Lemme have a try?" says I. With that I stuffs extra cushions around her, folds up a life preserver to rest her feet on, and drapes her with a steamer rug.
"Thanks," says she, sighin' grateful and rewardin' me with a display of dimples. "What is your name, young man?"
"Why," says I, with a glance at Vee, "you can just call me Bill."
"Nonsense!" says Mabel. "Your name is William."
"William goes, Miss," says I; and as she snuggles down I chances a wink Vee's way. No response, though. Vee ain't sure yet whether she ought to grin or give me the call-down.
"Cast off!" says Payne, and out between the rocks we shoot, with Aunty and Mrs. Hollister wavin' from the veranda. Anyway, that was some relief. This wa'n't Aunty's day for picnickin'.
She didn't know what she was missin', I expect; for, say, that's good breathin' air up off Boothbay. There's some life and pep to it, and rushin' through it that way you can't help pumpin' your lungs full. Makes you glow and tingle inside and out. Makes you want to holler. That, and the sunshine dancin' on the water, and the feel of the boat slicin' through the waves, the engine purrin' away a sort of rag-time tune, and the pennants whippin', and all that scenery shiftin' around to new angles, not to mention the fact that Vee's along—well, I was enjoyin' life about then. Kind of got into my blood. Everything was lovely, and I didn't care what happened next.
Me bein' the crew, I expect I should have been fussin' around up front, coilin' ropes, or groomin' the machinery. But I can't make my eyes behave. I has to turn around every now and then and grin. Mabel don't seem to mind.
"William," says she, signalin' me, "see if you can't find a box of candy in that basket."
I hops over the steerin' seat back into the standin' room and digs it out. Also I lingers around while Mabel feeds in a few pieces.
"Have some?" says she. "You're so good-natured looking."
"That's my long suit," says I.
Then I see Vee's mouth corners twitching and she takes her turn. "You live around here, I suppose, William?" says she.
"No such luck," says I. "I come up special to get this job."
"But," puts in Mabel, holdin' a fat chocolate cream in the air, "Tucker wasn't hurt until yesterday."
"That's when I landed," says I.
"Someone must have sent you word then," says Vee, impish.
"Uh-huh," says I. "Someone mighty special too. Sweet of her, wa'n't it?"
"Oh! A girl?" asks Mabel, perkin' up.
"Thegirl," says I.
"Tee-hee!" snickers Mabel, nudgin' Vee delighted. "Is—is she very nice, William? Tell us about her, won't you?"
"Oh, do!" says Vee, sarcastic.
"Well," says I, lookin' at Vee, "she's about your height and build."
"How interesting!" says Mabel, with another nudge. "Go on. What kind of hair?"
"Never was any like it," says I.
"But her complexion," insists Mabel, "dark or fair?"
"Pink roses in the mornin', with the dew on," says I.
"Bravo!" says Mabel, clappin' her hands. "And her eyes?"
"Why," says I, "maybe you've looked down into deep sea water on a still, gray day? That's it."
"She must be a beauty," says Mabel.
"Nothing but," says I.
"I hope she has a nice disposition too," says she.
"Nope," says I, shakin' my head solemn.
"Humph! What's the matter with that?" says Vee.
"Jumpy," says I. "Red pepper and powdered sugar; sometimes all sugar, sometimes all pepper, then again a mixture. You never can tell."
"Then I'd throw her over," says Vee.
"Honest, would you?" says I, lookin' her square in the eye.
"If I didn't like her disposition, I would," says she.
"But that's the best part of her to me," says I. "Adds variety, you know, and—well, I expect it's about the only way I'm like her. Mine is apt to be that way too."
"Why, of course," comes in Mabel. "If she was as pretty as all that, and angelic too——"
"You got the idea," says I. "She'd be in a stained glass window somewhere, eh?"
"You're a silly boy!" says Vee.
"That sounds natural," says I. "I often get that from her."
"And is she living up here?" asks Mabel. "Visiting," says I. "She's with her——"
"William," breaks in Vee, "I think Mr. Hollister wants you."
I'd most forgot about Payne; for, while he's only a few feet off, he's as much out of the group as if he was ashore. You know how it is in one of them high-powered launches with the engine runnin'. You can't hear a word unless you're right close to. And Payne's twistin' around restless.
"Yes, Sir?" says I, goin' up and reportin'.
"Ask Miss Verona if she doesn't want to come up here," says he. "I—I think it will trim the boat better."
"Sure," says I. But when I passes the word to Vee I translates. "Mr. Hollister's lonesome," says I, "and there's room for another."
"I've been wondering if I couldn't," says Vee.
"You can," says I. "Lemme help you over."
Gives me a chance for a little hand squeeze and another close glimpse into them gray eyes. I don't make out anything definite, though. But as she passes forward she puckers her lips saucy and whispers, "Pepper!" in my ear. I guess, after all, when you're doin' confidential description you don't want to stick too close to facts. Makin' it all stained glass window stuff is safer.
I goes back to Mabel and lets her demand more details. She's just full of romance, Mabel is; not so full, though, that it interferes with her absorbin' a few eats now and then. Between answerin' questions I'm kept busy handin' out crackers, oranges, and doughnuts, openin' the olive bottle, and gettin' her drinks of water. Reg'lar Consumers' League, Mabel. I never run a sausage stuffin' machine; but I think I could now.
"You're such a handy young man to have around," says Mabel, after I've split a Boston cracker and lined it with strawb'ry jam for her; "so much better than Tucker."
"That's my aim," says I, "to make you forget Tucker."
Yes, I was gettin' some popular with Mabel, even if I was in wrong with Vee. They seems to be havin' quite a chatty time of it, Payne showin' her how to steer, and lettin' her salute passin' launches, and explainin' how the engine worked. As far as them two went, Mabel and me was only so much excess baggage.
"Why, we're clear out beyond Squirrel!" exclaims Mabel at last. "Ask Payne where we're going to stop for our picnic. I'm getting hungry."
"Oh, yes," says Payne, "we must be thinking about landing. I had planned to run out to Damariscove; but that looks like a fog bank hanging off there. Perhaps we'd better go back to Fisherman's Island, after all. Tell her Fisherman's."
I couldn't see what the fog bank had to do with it—not then, anyway. Why, it was a peach of a day,—all blue sky, not a sign of a cloud anywhere, and looked like it would stay that way for a week. He keeps the Vixen headed out to sea for awhile longer, and then all of a sudden he circles short and starts back.
"Fog!" he shouts over his shoulder to Mabel.
"Oh, bother!" says Mabel. "I hate fog. And it is coming in too."
Yes, that bank did seem to be workin' its way toward us, like a big, gray curtain that's bein' shoved from the back drop to the front of the stage. You couldn't see it move, though; but as I watched blamed if it don't creep up on an island, a mile or so out, and swallow it complete, same as a picture fades off a movie screen when the lights go wrong. Just like that. Then a few wisps of thin mist floats by, makin' things a bit hazy ahead. Squirrel Island, off to the left, disappears like it had gone to the bottom. The mainland shore grows vague and blurred, and the first thing we know we ain't anywhere at all, the scenery's all smudged out, and nothin' in sight but this pearl-gray mist. It ain't very thick, you know, and only a little damp. Rummy article, this State of Maine fog!
Young Hollister is standin' up now, tryin' to keep his bearin's and doin' his best to look through the haze. He slows the engine down until we're only just chuggin' along.
"Let's see," says he, "wasn't Squirrel off there a moment ago?"
"Why, no," says Vee. "I thought it was more to the left."
"By Jove!" says he. "And there are rocks somewhere around here too!"
Funny how quick you can get turned around that way. Inside of three minutes I couldn't have told where we were at, any more'n if I'd been blindfolded in a cellar. And I guess young Hollister got to that condition soon after.
"We ought to be making the south end of Fisherman's soon," he observes.
But we didn't. He has me climb out on the bow to sing out if I see anything. But, say, there was less to see than any spot I was ever in. I watched and watched, and Payne kept on gettin' nervous. And still we keeps chuggin' and chuggin', steerin' first one way and then the other. It seemed hours we'd been gropin' around that way when——
"Rocks ahead!" I sings out as something dark looms up. Payne turns her quick; but before she can swing clear bang goes the bow against something solid and slides up with a gratin' sound. He tries backin' off; but she don't budge.
"Hang it all!" says Payne, shuttin' off the engine. "I guess we're stuck."
"Then why not have the picnic right here?" pipes up Mabel.
"Here!" snaps Payne. "But I don't know where we are."
"Oh, what's the difference?" says Mabel. "Besides, I'm hungry."
"I want to get out of this, though," says Payne. "I mean to keep going until I know where I am."
"Oh, fudge!" says Mabel. "This is good enough. And if we stay here and have a nice luncheon perhaps the fog will go away. What's the sense in drifting around when you're hungry?"
That didn't seem such bad dope, either. Vee sides with Mabel, and while Payne don't like the idea he gives in. We seem to have landed somewhere. So we carts the baskets and things ashore, finds a flat place up on the rocks, and then the three of us tackles the job of hoistin' Mabel onto dry land. And it was some enterprise, believe me!
"Goodness!" pants Mabel, after we'd got her planted safe. "I don't know how I'm ever going to get back."
We didn't, either; but after we'd spread out five kinds of sandwiches within her reach, poured hot coffee out of the patent bottles, opened the sardines and pickles, set out the cake and doughnuts, Mabel ceases to worry.
Payne don't, though. He swallows one sandwich, and then goes back to inspect the boat. He announces that the tide is comin' in and she ought to float soon; also that when she does he wants to start back.
"Now, Payne!" protests Mabel. "Just when I'm comfortable!"
"And there isn't any hurry, is there?" asks Vee.
I wa'n't so stuck on buttin' around in the fog myself; so when he asks me to go down and see if the launch is afloat yet, and I finds that she can be pushed off easy, I don't hurry about tellin' him so. Instead I climbs aboard and develops an idea. You see, when I was out with Eb Westcott in his lobster boat the day before I'd noticed him stop the engine just by jerkin' a little wire off the spark plug. Here was a whole bunch of wires, though. Wouldn't do to unhitch 'em all. But along the inside of the boat is a little box affair that they all lead into, with one big wire leadin' out. Looked kind of businesslike, that one did. I unhitches it gentle and drapes it over a nearby screwhead. Then I strolls back and reports that she's afloat.
"Good!" says Payne. "I'll just start the engine and be tuning her up while the girls finish luncheon."
Well, maybe you can guess. I could hear him windin' away at the crankin' wheel, windin' and windin', and then stoppin' to cuss a little under his breath.
"What's the matter?" sings out Mabel.
She was one of the kind that's strong on foolish questions.
"How the blazes should I know?" raps back young Hollister. "I can't start the blasted thing."
"Never mind," says Mabel cheerful. "We haven't finished the sandwiches yet."
Next time I takes a peek Payne has his tool kit spread out and is busy takin' things apart. He's getting' himself all smeared up with grease and oil too. Pity; for he'd started out lookin' so neat and nifty. Meanwhile we'd fed Mabel to the limit, got her propped up with cushions, and she's noddin' contented.
"Guess I'll do some exploring" says I.
"But I've been wanting to do that this half-hour," says Vee.
"Well, let's then," says I.
"Go on," says Mabel, "and tell me about it afterward."
Oh, yes, we explores. Say, I'm a bear for that too! You have to go hand in hand over the rocks, to keep from slippin'. And the fog makes it all the nicer. We didn't go far before we came to the edge. Then we cross in another direction, and comes to more edge.
"Why, we're on a little island!" says Vee.
"Big enough for us," says I. "Here's a good place to sit down too." We settles ourselves in a snug little corner that gives us a fine view of the fog.
"How silly of you to come away up here," says Vee, "just because—well, just because."
"It's the only wise move I was ever guilty of," says I. "I feel like I had Solomon in the grammar grade."
"But how did you happen to get here—with Payne?" says she.
"Hypnotized him," says I. "That part was a cinch."
"And until to-day you didn't know where we were, or anything," says she.
"I scouted around a bit yesterday afternoon," says I. "Saw you too."
"Yesterday!" says she. "Why, no one came near all the afternoon; that is, only a couple of lobstermen in a horrid, smelly old boat."
"Uh-huh," says I. "One was me, in disguise."
"Torchy!" says she, gaspin'. And somehow she snuggles up a little closer after that. "I didn't think when I wrote," she goes on, "that you would be so absurd."
"Maybe I was," says I. "But I took it straight, that part about it bein' stupid up here. I was figurin' on liftin' the gloom. I hadn't counted on Payne."
"Well, what then?" says she, tossin' her chin up.
"Nothin'," says I. "Guess you were right, too."
"He only came the other day," says Vee; "but he's nice."
"Aunty thinks so too, don't she?" says I.
"Why, yes," admits Vee.
"Another chosen one, is he?" says I.
Vee flushes. "I don't care!" says she. "He is rather nice."
"Correct," says I. "I found him that way too; but ain't he—well, just a little stiff in the neck?"
That brings out a giggle. "Poor Payne!" says Vee. "He is something of a stick, you know."
"We'll forgive him for that," says I. "We'll forgive Mabel. We'll forgive the fog. Eh?" Then my arm must have slipped.
"Why, Torchy!" says she.
"Oh!" says I. "Thought you were too near the edge." And the side clinch wa'n't disturbed.
Then my arm must have slipped—and the side clinch wa'n't disturbed.[Illustration: Then my arm must have slipped—and the side clinch wa'n't disturbed.]
Then my arm must have slipped—and the side clinch wa'n't disturbed.[Illustration: Then my arm must have slipped—and the side clinch wa'n't disturbed.]
Some chat too! I don't know when we've had a chance for any such a good long talk as that, and we both seemed to have a lot of conversation stored up. Then we chucked pebbles into the water, and Vee pulls some seaweed and decorates my round hat. You know? It's easy killin' time when you're paired off right. And the first thing we knows the fog begins to lighten and the sun almost breaks through. We hurries back to where Mabel's just rousin' from a doze.
"Well?" says she.
"It's a tiny little island we're on," says Vee.
"Nice little island, though," says I.
"Hey!" sings out Payne, pokin' his head up over the rocks. "I've been calling and calling."
"We've been explorin'," says I. "Got her fixed yet?"
"Hang it, no!" growls Payne, scrubbin' cotton waste over his forehead. "And the fog's beginning to lift. Why, there's the shore, and—and—well, what do you think of that? We're on Grampus Ledges, not a mile from home!"
Sure enough, there was Roarin' Rocks just showin' up.
"Now if I could only start this confounded engine!" says he, starin' down at it puzzled.
By this time Vee and Mabel appears, and of course Mabel wants to know what's the matter.
"I'm sure I can't tell," says Payne, sighin' hopeless.
"Wirin' all right, is it?" says I, climbin' in and lookin' scientific. And—would you believe it?—I only paws around a minute or so before I finds a loose magneto connection, hooks it up proper, and remarks casual, "Now let's try her."
Pur-r-r-r-r! Off she goes. "There!" exclaims Mabel. "I shall never go out again unless William is along. He's so handy!"
Say, she stuck to it. Four days I was chief engineer of the Vixen—and, take it from me, they was perfectly good days. No more fog. No rain. Just shoolin' around in fair weather, makin' excursions here and there, with Vee trippin' down to the dock every day in a fresher and newer yachtin' costume, and lookin' pinker and sweeter every trip.
Course, as regards a certain other party, it was a case of artistic dodgin' for me between times. You got to admit, though, that it wa'n't a fair test for Aunty. I had her off her guard. Might have been diff'rent too, if she'd cared for motorboatin'. So maybe I got careless. I remember once passin' Aunty right in the path, as I'm luggin' some things up to the house, and all I does is to hoist the basket up on my shoulder between me and her and push right along.
Then here the last morning just as we got under way for a run to Damariscotta, she and Mrs. Hollister was up on the cliff seein' us off. All the rest was wavin'; so just for sport I takes off my hat and waves too, grinnin' humorous at Vee as I makes the play. But, say, next time I looks back she's up on the veranda with the fieldglasses trained on us. I keeps my hat on after that. My kind of red hair is prominent enough to the naked eye at almost any distance—but with fieldglasses! Good night!
It was a day for forgettin' things, though. Ever sailed up the Scotty River on a perfect August day, with the sun on the green hills, a sea breeze tryin' to follow the tide in, and the white gulls swingin' lazy overhead? It's worth doin'. Then back again, roundin' Ocean Point about sunset, with the White Islands all tinted up pink off there, and the old Atlantic as smooth as a skatin' rink as far out as you can see, and streaked with more colors than a crazy cubist can sling,—some peaceful picture.
But what a jar to find Aunty, grim and forbidding waitin' on the dock. She never says a word until we'd landed and everyone but me had started for the house. Then I got mine.
"Boy," says she icy, "take off that hat!"
I does it reluctant.
"Humph!" says she. "William! I thought so." That's all; but she says it mighty expressive.
The programme for the followin' day included a ten o'clock start, and I'd been down to the boat ever since breakfast, tidyin' things up and sort of wonderin'. About nine-fifteen, though, young Hollister comes wanderin' down by his lonesome.
"It's all off," says he. "Miss Verona and her aunt have gone."
"Eh?" says I, gawpin'. "Gone?"
"Early this morning," says he. "I don't quite understand why; something about Verona's being out on the water so much, I believe. Gone to the mountains. And—er—by the way, Tucker is around again. Here he comes now."
"He gets the jumper, then," says I, peelin' it off. "I guess I'm due back on Broadway."
"It's mighty good of you to help out," says Payne, "and I—I want to do the right thing in the way of——"
"You have," says I. "You've helped me have the time of my life. Put up the kale, Hollister. If you'll land me at the Harbor, I'll call it square."
He don't want to let it stand that way; but I insists. As I climbs out on the Yacht Club float, where he'd picked me up, he puts out his hand friendly.
"And, say," says I, "how about Miss Vee?"
"Why," says he, "I'm very sorry she couldn't stay longer."
"Me too," says I. "Some girl, eh?"
Payne nods hearty, and we swaps a final grip.
Well, it was great! My one miscue was not wearin' a wig.
We thought it was all over too. That's the way it is in plays and books, where they don't gen'rally take 'em beyond the final clinch, leavin' you to fill in the blissad lib. But here we'd seen 'em clear through the let-no-man-put-asunder stage, even watched 'em dodge the rice and confetti in their dash to the limousine.
"Thank goodness that's through with!" remarks Mother, without makin' any bones of it.
Course, her reg'lar cue was to fall on Father's neck and weep; but, then, I expect Mrs. Cheyne Ballard's one of the kind you can't write any form sheet for. She's a lively, bunchy little party, all jump and go and jingle, who looks like she might have been married herself only day before yesterday.
"I hope Robbie knows where she put those trunk checks," says Father, at the same time sighin' sort of relieved.
From where I stood, though, the guy who was pushin' overboard the biggest chunk of worry was this I-wilt boy, Mr. Nicholas Talbot. He'd got her at last! But, z-z-z-zingo! it had been some lively gettin'. Not that I was all through the campaign with him; but I'd had glimpses here and there.
You see, Robbie's almost one of the fam'ly; for Mr. Robert's an old friend of the Ballards, and was bottle holder or something at the christenin'. As a matter of fact, she was named Roberta after him. Then he'd watched her grow up, and always remembered her birthdays, and kept her latest picture on his desk. So why shouldn't he figure more or less when so many others was tryin' to straighten out her love affairs? They was some tangled there for awhile too.
Robbie's one of the kind, you know, that would have Cupid cross-eyed in one season. A queen? Well, take it from me! Say, the way her cheeks was tinted up natural would have a gold medal rose lookin' like it come off a twenty-nine-cent roll of wall paper. Then them pansy-colored eyes! Yes, Miss Roberta Ballard was more or less ornamental. That wa'n't all, of course. She could say more cute things, and cut loose with more unexpected pranks, than a roomful of Billie Burkes. As cunnin' as a kitten, she was.
No wonder Nick Talbot fell for her the first time he was exposed! Course, he was half engaged to that stunnin' Miss Marian Marlowe at the time; but wa'n't Robbie waverin' between three young chaps that all seemed to be in the runnin' before Nick showed up?
Anyway, Miss Marlowe should have known better than to lug in her steady when she was visitin'. She'd been chummy with Robbie at boardin' school, and should have known how dangerous she was. But young Mr. Talbot had only two looks before he's as strong for Robbie as though it had been comin' on for years back. Impetuous young gent that way he was too; and, bein' handicapped by no job, and long on time and money, he does some spirited rushin'.
Seems Robbie Ballard didn't mind. Excitement was her middle name, novelty was her strong suit, and among Nick's other attractions he was brand new. Besides, wa'n't he a swell one-stepper, a shark at tennis, and couldn't he sing any ragtime song that she could drum out? The ninety-horse striped racin' car that he came callin' in helped along some; for one of Robbie's fads was for travelin' fast. Course, she'd been brought up in limousines; but the mile in fifty seconds gave her a genuine thrill.
When it come to holdin' out her finger for the big solitaire that Nick flashed on her about the third week, though, she hung back. The others carried about the same line of jew'lry around in their vest pockets, waitin' for a chance to decorate her third finger. One had the loveliest gray eyes too. Then there was another entry, with the dearest little mustache, who was a bear at doin' the fish-walk tango with her; not to mention the young civil engineer she'd met last winter at Palm Beach. But he didn't actually count, not bein' on the scene.
Anyway, three was enough to keep guessin' at once. Robbie was real modest that way. But she sure did have 'em all busy. If it was a sixty-mile drive with Nick before luncheon, it was apt to be an afternoon romp in the surf with the gray-eyed one, and a toss up as to which of the trio took her to the Casino dance in the evenin'. Mother used to laugh over it all with Mr. Robert, who remarked that those kids were absurd. Nobody seemed to take it serious; for Robbie was only a few months over nineteen.
But young Mr. Talbot had it bad. Besides, he'd always got about what he wanted before, and this time he was in dead earnest. So the first thing Mother and Father knew they were bein' interviewed. Robbie had half said she might if there was no kick from her dear parents, and he wanted to know how about it. Mr. Cheyne Ballard supplied the information prompt. He called Nick an impudent young puppy, at which Mother wept and took the young gent's part. Robbie blew in just then and giggled through the rest of the act, until Father quit disgusted and put it square up to her. Then she pouted and locked herself in her room. That's when Mr. Robert was sent for; but she wouldn't give him any decision, either.
So for a week there things was in a mess, with Robbie balkin', Mother havin' a case of nerves, Father nursin' a grouch, and Nick Talbot mopin' around doleful. Then some girl friend suggested to Robbie that if she did take Nick they could have a moonlight lawn weddin', with the flower gardens all lit up by electric bulbs, which would be too dear for anything. Robbie perked up and asked for details. Inside of an hour she was plannin' what she would wear. Late in the afternoon Nick heard the glad news himself, through a third party.
First off the date was set for early next spring, when she'd be twenty. That was Father's dope; although Mother was willin' it should be pulled off around Christmas time. Nick, he stuck out for the first of October; but Robbie says:
"Oh, pshaw! There won't be any flowers then, and we'll be back in town. Why not week after next?"
So that's the compromise fin'lly agreed on. The moonlight stunt had to be scratched; but the outdoor part was stuck to—and believe me it was some classy hitchin' bee!
They'd been gone about two weeks, I guess, with everybody contented except maybe the three losers, and all hands countin' the incident closed; when one forenoon Mother shows up at the general offices, has a long talk with Mr. Robert, and goes away moppin' her eyes. Then there's a call for Mr. Cheyne Ballard's downtown number, and Mr. Robert has a confab with him over the 'phone. Next comes three lively rings for me on the buzzer, and I chases into the private office. Mr. Robert is sittin' scowlin', makin' savage' jabs with a paper knife at the blotter pad.
"Torchy," says he, "I find myself in a deucedly awkward fix."
"Another lobbyist been squealin'?" says I.
"No, no!" says he. "This is a personal affair, and—well, it's embarrassing, to say the least."
"Another lobbyist been squealin'?" says I.
"It's about Roberta," says he.
"What—again?" says I. "But I thought they was travelin' abroad?"
"I wish they were," says he; "but they're not. At the last moment, it seems, Robbie decided she didn't care for a foreign trip,—too late in the season, and she didn't want to be going over just when everyone was coming back, you know. So they went up to Thundercaps instead."
"Sounds stormy," says I.
"You're quite right," says he. "But it's a little gem of a place that young Talbot's father built up in the Adirondacks. I was there once. It's right on top of a mountain. And that's where they are now, miles from anywhere or anybody."
"And spoony as two mush ladles, I expect," says I.
"Humph!" says he, tossin' the brass paper knife reckless onto the polished mahogany desk top. "They ought to be, I will admit; but—oh, hang it all, if you're to be of any use in this beastly affair, I suppose you must be told the humiliating, ugly truth! They are not spooning. Robbie is very unhappy. She—she's being abused."
"Well, what do you know!" says I. "You don't mean he's begun draggin' her around by the hair, or——"
"Don't!" says Mr. Robert, bunchin' his fists nervous. "I can't tell. Robbie hasn't gone into that. But she has written her mother that she is utterly wretched, and that this precious Nick Talbot of hers is unbearable. The young whelp! If I could only get my hands on him for five minutes! But, blast it all! that's just what I mustn't do until—until I'm sure. I can't trust myself to go. That is why I must send you, young man."
"Eh?" says I, starin'. "Me? Ah, say, Mr. Robert, I wouldn't stand any show at all mixin' it with a young husk like him. Why, after the first poke I'd be——"
"You misunderstand," says he. "That poke part I can attend to very well myself. But I want to know the worst before I start in, and if I should go up there now, feeling as I do, I—well, I might not be a very patient investigator. You see, don't you?"
"Might blow a gasket, eh?" says I. "And you want me to go up and scout around. But what if I'm caught at it—am I peddlin' soap, or what?"
"A plausible errand is just what I've been trying to invent," says he. "Can you suggest anything?"
"Why," says I, "I might go disguised as a lone bandit who'd robbed a train and was——"
"Too theatrical," objects Mr. Robert.
"Or a guy come to test the gas meter," I goes on.
"Nonsense!" says he. "No gas meters up there. Forget the disguise. They both know you, remember."
"Oh, well," says I, "if I can't wear a wig, then I expect I'll have to go as special messenger sent up with some nutty present or other,—a five-pound box of candy, or flowers, or——"
"That's it—orchids!" breaks in Mr. Robert. "Robbie expects a bunch from me about every so often. The very thing!"
So less'n an hour later I'm on my way, with fifty dollars' worth of freak posies in a box, and instructions to stick around Thundercaps as long as I can, with my eyes wide open and my ears stretched. Mr. Robert figures I'll land there too late for the night train back, anyway, and after that I'm to use my bean. If I finds the case desp'rate, I'm to beat it for the nearest telegraph office and wire in.
"Poor little girl!" is Mr. Robert's closin' remark. "Poor little Robbie!"
Cheerful sort of an errand, wa'n't it, bein' sent to butt in on a Keno curtain raiser? Easy enough workin' up sympathy for the abused bride. Why, she wa'n't much more'n a kid, and one who'd been coddled and petted all her life, at that! And here she ups and marries offhand this two-fisted young hick who turns out to be bad inside. You wouldn't have guessed it, either; for, barrin' a kind of heavy jaw and deep-set eyes, he had all the points of a perfectly nice young gent. Good fam'ly too. Mr. Robert knew two of his brothers well, and durin' the coo campaign he'd rooted for Nick. Then he had to show a streak like this!
"But wait!" thinks I. "If I can get anything on him, he sure will have it handed to him hot when Mr. Robert arrives. I want to see it done too."
You don't get to places like Thundercaps in a minute, though. It's the middle of the afternoon before I jumps the way train at a little mountain station, and then I has to hunt up a jay with a buckboard and take a ten-mile drive over a course like a roller coaster. They ought to smooth that Adirondack scenery down some. Crude stuff, I call it.
But, say, the minute we got inside Thundercaps' gates it's diff'rent—smooth green lawns, lots of flowerbeds, a goldfish pool,—almost like a chunk of Central Park. In the middle is a white-sided, red-tiled shack, with pink and white awnings, and odd windows, and wide, cozy verandas,—just the spot where you'd think a perfectly good honeymoon might be pulled off.
I'm just unloadin' my bag and the flowerbox when around a corner of the cottage trips a cerise-tinted vision in an all lace dress and a butterfly wrap. Course, it's Robbie. She's heard the sound of wheels, and has come a runnin'.
"Oh!" says she, stoppin' sudden and puckerin' her baby mouth into a pout. "I thought someone was arriving, you know." Which was a sad jolt to give a rescuer, wa'n't it?
"Sorry," says I; "but I'm all there is."
"You're the boy from Uncle Robert's office—Torchy, isn't it?" says she.
"It is," says I. "Fired up with flowers and Mr. Robert's compliments."
"The old dear!" says she, grabbin' the box, slippin' off the string and divin' into the tissue paper. "Orchids, too! Oh, goody! But they don't go with my coat. Pooh! I don't need it, anyway." With that she, sheds the butterfly arrangement, chuckin' it casual on the steps, and jams the whole of that fifty dollars' worth under her sash. "There, how does that look, Mr. Torchy?" says she, takin' a few fancy steps back and forth.
"All right, I guess," says I.
"Stupid!" says she, stampin' her double A-1 pump peevish. "Is that the prettiest you can say it? Come, now—aren't they nice on me?"
"Nice don't cover it," says I. "I was only wonderin' whether orchids was invented for you, or you for orchids."
This brings out a frilly little laugh, like jinglin' a string of silver bells, and she shows both dimples. "That's better," says she. "Almost as good as some of the things Bud Chandler can say. Dear old Bud! He's such fun!"
"He was the gray-eyed one, wa'n't he?" says I.
"Why, yes," says she. "He was a dear. So was Oggie Holcomb. I wish Nick would ask them both up."
"Eh?" says I. "The also rans? Here?"
"Pooh!" says she. "Why not? It's frightfully dull, being all alone. But Nick won't do it, the old bear!"
Which reminds me that I ought to be scoutin' for black eyes, or wrist bruises, or finger marks on her neck. Nothin' of the kind shows up, though.
"Been kind of rough about it, has he?" says I.
"He's been perfectly awful!" says she. "Sulking around as though I'd done something terrible! But I'll pay him up. Come, you're not going back tonight, are you?"
"Can't," says I. "No train."
"Then you must play with me," says she, grabbin' my hand kittenish and startin' to run me across the yard.
"But, see here," says I, followin' her on the jump. "Where's Hubby?"
"Oh, I don't know," says she. "Off tramping through the woods with his dog, I suppose. He's sulking, as usual. And all because I insisted on writing to Oggie! Then there was something about the servants. I don't know, only things went wrong at breakfast, and some of them have threatened to leave. Who cares? Yesterday it was about the tennis court. What if he did telegraph to have it laid out? I couldn't play when I found I hadn't brought any tennis shoes, could I? Besides, there's no fun playing against Nick, he's such a shark. He didn't like it, either, because I wouldn't use the baby golf course. But I will with you. Come on."
"I never did much putting," says I.
"Nor I," says she; "but we can try."
Three or four holes was enough for her, though, and then she has a new idea. "You rag, don't you?" says she.
"Only a few tango steps," says I. "My feet stutter."
"Then I'll show you how," says she. "We have some dandy records, and the veranda's just right."
So what does she do but tow me back to the house, ring up a couple of maids to clear away all the rugs and chairs, and push the music machine up to the open window.
"Put on that 'Too Much Mustard,' Annette," says she, "and keep it going."
Must have surprised Annette some, as I hadn't been accounted for; but a little thing like that don't bother Robbie. She gives me the proper grip for the onestep,—which is some close clinch, believe me!—cuddles her fluffy head down on my necktie, and off we goes.
"No, don't try to trot," says she. "Just balance and keep time, and swing two or three times at the turn. Keep your feet apart, you know. Now back me. Swing! There, you're getting it. Keep on!"
Some spieler, Robbie; and whether or not that was just a josh about orchids bein' invented for her, there's no doubt but what ragtime was. Yes, yes, that's where she lives. And me? Well, I can't say I hated it. With her coachin' me, and that snappy music goin', I caught the idea quick enough, and first I knew we was workin' in new variations that she'd suggest, doin' the slow toe pivot, the kitchen sink, and a lot more.
We stopped long enough to have tea and cakes served, and then Robbie insists on tryin' some new stunts. There's a sidewise dip, where you twist your partner around like you was tryin' to break her back over a chair, and we was right in the midst of practisin' that when who should show up but the happy bridegroom. And someway I've seen 'em look more pleased.