She was chatterin' along like a schoolgirl, and when the boat pulls out of the slip she waves jaunty to us. Don Carlos, leanin' over the rail alongside of her, gazes at her sort of admirin'.
"El Kurfah, eh?" says I to Sadie. "That's missin' the Old Ladies' Home by some margin, ain't it?"
CHAPTER XA CASE OF NOBODY HOME
"Yes," says J. Bayard Steele, adjustin' the chin part in his whiskers and tiltin' back comf'table in his chair, "I am beginning to think that the late Pyramid Gordon must have been a remarkably good judge of human nature."
"For instance?" says I.
"His selection of me as an executor of his whimsical will," says he.
"Huh!" says I. "How some people do dislike themselves! Now, if you want to know my views on that subject, J. B., I've always thought that was one of his battiest moves."
But he's got a hide like a sample trunk, Mr. Steele has. He only shrugs his shoulders. "Yes, you have given me similar subtle hints to that effect," says he. "And I will admit that at first I had doubts as to my fitness. The doing of kind and generous acts for utter strangers has not been a ruling passion with me. But so far I have handled several assignments—in which have I failed?"
"Look who's been coachin' you, though!" says I.
J. Bayard bows and waves a manicured handgraceful. "True," he goes on, "your advice has been invaluable on occasions, friend McCabe; especially in the early stages of my career as a commissioned agent of philanthropy. But I rather fancy that of late I have developed an altruistic instinct of my own; an instinct, if I may say so, in which kindly zeal is tempered by a certain amount of practical wisdom."
"Fine!" says I. "Bein' a little floral tribute, I take it, from Mr. Steele to himself."
"Unless it should occur to you, McCabe," says he, "to make the distinction between offensive egoism and pardonable pride."
"I don't get you," says I; "but I feel the jab. Anyhow, it's instructin' and elevatin' to hear you run on. Maybe you've got somethin' special on your mind?"
"I have," says he, producin' an envelope with some notes scribbled on the back.
"Is that No. 6 on the list?" says I. "Who's the party?"
"Here," says he, tappin' the envelope impressive, "are my findings and recommendations in the case of Hackett Wells."
"Shoot it," says I, settlin' back in the desk chair.
It's a pity too I can't give you all the high English J. Bayard uses up in statin' this simple proposition; for he's in one of them comf'table, expandin', after-luncheon moods, when his waist band fits tight and the elegant languagejust flows from him like he had hydrant connection with the dictionary.
It seems, though, that this Wells party had been sort of a partner of Pyramid's back in the early days. Some sort of a buyers' pool for Eastern coal deliveries, I believe it was, that Hackett had got into accidental and nursed along until he found himself dividin' the cream of the profits with only half a dozen others. Then along came Pyramid with his grand consolidation scheme, holdin' out the bait of makin' Mr. Wells head of the new concern and freezin' out all the rest.
Wells, he swallows it whole: only to wake up a few months later and discover that he's been double crossed. Havin' served his turn, Gordon has just casually spilled him overboard, thinkin' no more of doin' it than he would of chuckin' away a half-smoked cigar.
But to Hackett Wells this was a national calamity. Havin' got in with the easy-money bunch by a fluke in the first place, he wa'n't a man who could come back. Course he brought suit, and wasted a lot of breath callin' Pyramid hard names from a safe distance; but Pyramid's lawyers wore him out in the courts, and he was too busy to care who was cussin' him.
So Mr. Wells and his woe drops out of sight. He's managed to keep hold of a little property that brings him in just enough to scrub along on, and he joins that hungry-eyed, trembly-fingered fringe of margin pikers that hangsaround every hotel broker's branch in town, takin' a timid flier now and then, but tappin' the free lunch hard and reg'lar. You know the kind,—seedy hasbeens, with their futures all behind 'em.
And in time, broodin' over things in gen'ral, it got to Hackett Wells in his weak spot,—heart, or liver, or something. Didn't quite finish him, you understand, but left him on the scrapheap, just totterin' around and stavin' off an obituary item by bein' mighty careful.
"I suppose Gordon must have heard something of the shape he was in," says J. Bayard, "when he included him in his list. Well, I hunted him up the other day, in a cheap, messy flat-house to the deuce and gone up Eighth avenue, got his story from him, and decided on a way of helping him out."
"Want to buy him a coal mine, or something like that?" says I.
J. Bayard refuses to notice my little sarcastic play. "I am sure Pyramid would have wanted this worn-out, cast-off tool of his to end his days decently," goes on Mr. Steele; "but to give him a lump sum would be worse than useless. Two or three plunges, and it would be all gone."
"Think of puttin' him in a home somewhere?" says I.
"That might be a good plan," says Steele, "if he was still a widower; but it appears that he has married again,—a young woman too,some waitress that he met in a quick-lunch place. I saw her. Bah! One of these plump, stupid young females, who appeared in a dingy dressing gown with her hair down. What an old fool! But I suppose she takes care of him, in a way. So I thought that an annuity, of say a thousand or two, paid in monthly installments, would be the wisest. That would enable them to move out into the country, get a nice little house, with a garden, and really live. It was pathetic to see how grateful he was when I told him of my scheme. Of course, McCabe, all this is subject to your indorsement. Thought you might like to have a talk with them first, and see for yourself; so I asked them to meet me here about——"
"Guess they're right on time," says I as the studio door opens, and in drifts a December-and-May pair that answers all the details of his description.
The old boy might have been still in the sixties; but with his remnant of white hair, watery eyes, and ashy cheeks he looks like a reg'lar antique. Must have been one of these heavy-set sports in his day, a good feeder, and a consistent drinker; but by the flabby dewlaps and the meal-bag way his clothes hang on him I judge he's slumped quite a lot. Still, he's kind of a dignified, impressive old ruin, which makes the contrast with the other half of the sketch all the more startlin'.
She's a bunchy blonde, she is, about four footsix in her French heels, with yellow hair, China-doll eyes, a snub nose, and a waxy pink and white complexion like these show-window models you see in department stores. She's costumed cheap but gaudy in a wrinkled, tango-colored dress that she must have picked off some Grand street bargain counter late last spring. The ninety-nine-cent soup-plate lid cocked over one ear adds a rakish touch that almost puts her in the comic valentine class.
But when I'm introduced to the old scout he glances fond at her and does the honors graceful. "Mrs. Wells, Professor," says he, and she executes an awkward duck response.
While the three of us are talkin' over J. Bayard's proposition she sits at one side, starin' blank and absentminded, as if this was somethin' that don't concern her at all.
It ain't a long debate, either. Hackett Wells seems satisfied with most any arrangement we want to make. He's a meek, broken old sport, grateful for anything that comes his way. That's what led me to insist on boostin' the ante up to twenty-five hundred, I guess; for it didn't look like he could go on pullin' that down for many years more. And of course J. Bayard is tickled to get my O.K. so easy.
"Then it's all settled," says Mr. Steele. "You will receive a check from the attorney of Mr. Gordon's estate on the first of every month. You and Mrs. Wells ought to start to-morrow to look for a place in some nice little countrytown and—why, what's the matter with your wife?"
She has her face in her hands, and her dumpy shoulders are heavin' up and down passionate. At first I couldn't make out whether it's woe, or if she's swallowed a safety pin. Anyway, it's deep emotion of some kind.
"Why, Deary!" says Mr. Wells, steppin' over and pattin' her on the back.
But that don't have any effect. The heavin' motion goes right on, and no answer comes from Deary.
"Mabel! Mabel, dear!" insists Hackett. "Tell me what is wrong. Come now!"
Mabel just shakes off his hand and continues her chest gymnastics. Also she begins kickin' her heels against the chair rungs. And as Hubby stands there lookin' helpless, with J. Bayard starin' disturbed, but makin' no move, it appears like it was up to me to take a hand.
"Don't mind the furniture, Ma'am," says I. "Take a whack at the desk too, if you like; but after you're through throwin' the fit maybe you'll let us know what it's all about."
At which she begins rockin' back and forth and moanin' doleful. A couple of hairpins works loose and drops to the floor.
"Excuse me, Ma'am," says I, "but you're goin' to lose the inside of that French roll if you keep on."
That fetched her out of it in a hurry. Grabbin' wild at her back hair, she sat up and facedus, with no signs at all of real weeps in her eyes.
"I won't live in the country, I won't!" she states explosive.
"Why, Mabel dear!" protests Mr. Wells.
"Ah, don't be an old bonehead!" comes back Mabel. "What's the idea, wishin' this Rube stuff on us? You can just count me out, Hacky, if that's the game. Do you get me?"
Hacky does. "I'm very sorry, Gentlemen," says he, "to ask you to modify your generous terms; but I feel that my wife's wishes in the matter ought to be taken into account."
"Why—er—to be sure," says J. Bayard. "I merely suggested your living in the country because it seemed to me the wisest plan; but after all——"
"Do we look like a pair of jays, I'd like to know?" demands Mrs. Wells indignant. "And another thing: I don't stand for this so much a month dope, either. What's the good of a little now and then? If we've got anything coming to us, why not hand it over annual? There'd be some sense to that. Stick out for once a year, Hacky."
Which he done. She had him well trained, Mabel did. He shrugs his shoulders, tries to smile feeble, and spreads out his hands. "You see, Gentlemen," says he.
I must say too that Mr. Steele puts up a mighty convincin' line of talk, tryin' to show 'em how much better it would be to have acouple of hundred or so comin' in fresh on the first of every month, than to be handed a lump sum and maybe lose some of it, or run shy before next payday. He explains how he was tryin' to plan so the money might do 'em the most good, and unless it did how he couldn't feel that he'd done his part right.
"All of which," he goes on, "I am quite sure, Mrs. Wells, you will appreciate."
"Go on, you whiskered old stuff!" comes back Mabel spiteful. "How do you know so much what's good for us? You and your nutty dreams about cows and flower gardens and hens! I'd rather go back to Second avenue and frisk another quick-lunch job. Hand us a wad: that's all we want."
Course it was a batty piece of work, tryin' to persuade people to let you push money on 'em; but that's just where we stood. And in the end J. Bayard wipes his brow weary and turns to me.
"Well, McCabe, what do you say?" he asks. "Shall we?"
"I leave it with you," says I. "You're the one that's developed this what-do-you-call-it instinct, temperin' kindly zeal with practical wisdom, ain't you? Then go to it!"
So five minutes later Hackett Wells shuffles out with an order good for the whole twenty-five hundred in his pocket, and Mabel clingin' tight to his arm.
"What's the idea," says Mabel, "Wishin' this Rube stuff on us?""What's the idea," says Mabel, "Wishin' this Rube stuff on us?"
"So long, Profess," says she over her shoulder, as I holds the door open for 'em. "We're headed for happy days."
And J. Bayard Steele, gazin' after her, remarks puzzled, "Now just precisely what can she mean by that?"
"Bein' only a crude and simple soul, J. B.," says I, "I got to give it up. Anyhow, Mabel's entirely too thick a girl for me to see through."
Besides, not knowin' her tastes or little fads, how was I to guess her notion of happy days? Then again, I didn't have to. All that's clear is that Pyramid had wanted us to do some good turn for this old goat, to sort of even up for that spill of years gone by, and we'd done our best. Whether the money was to be used wise or not accordin' to our view was a problem that don't worry me at all. Might have once, when I was dead sure my dope on things in gen'ral was the only true dope. But I'm getting over that, I hope, and allowin' other folks to have theirs now and then. In fact, I proceeded to forget this pair as quick as possible, like you try to shake a bad dream when you wake up in the night. And I warned J. Bayard that if he didn't quit luggin' his punk philanthropy specimens into my studio I'd bar him out entirely.
Let's see, that was early in the summer, and it must have been just before Labor Day that I broke away for a week or so to run up into the White Mountains and bring back Sadie and little Sully. First off Sadie was plannin' tocome by train; but by the time I got there she'd changed her mind and wanted to tour back in the machine.
"It's such gorgeous weather," says she, "and the leaves are turning so nicely! We'll take three days for it, making short runs and stopping at night wherever we like."
"You mean," says I, "stoppin' wherever you can find an imitation Waldorf-Castoria."
"Not at all," says she. "And you know some of these little automobile inns are perfectly charming."
Well, that's what brought us to this Sunset Lake joint the first night out. Somewhere in New Hampshire it was, or maybe Vermont. Anyway, it was right in the heart of the summer boarder belt, and it had all the usual vacation apparatus cluttered around,—tennis courts, bowling alleys, bathing floats, dancing pavilion, and a five-piece Hungarian orchestra, four parts kosher, that helped the crockery jugglers put the din in dinner.
It was a clean, well-kept place, though, and by the quality of the tomato bisque and the steamed clams that we started with I judged we was actually goin' to be surprised with some real food. We'd watched the last of the sunset glow fade out from the little toy lake, and while we was waitin' to see what the roast and vegetables might be like we gazed around at the dinner push that was filterin' in.
And what a job lot of humanity does havethe coin to spend the summer, or part of it, at these four-a-day resorts! There's middle-aged sports, in the fifties or over, some of 'em with their fat, fussed-up wives, others with giddy young Number Twos; then there's jolly, sunburned, comf'table lookin' fam'ly parties, includin' little Brother with the peeled nose, and Grandmother with her white lace cap. Also there's quite a sprinklin' of widows, gay and otherwise, and the usual bunch of young folks, addin' lively touches here and there. All city people, you know, playin' at bein' in the country, but insistin' on Broadway food at Broadway prices.
Our waitress was just staggerin' in with a loaded tray, and Sadie was tryin' to induce little Sully not to give the college yell when he asked personal questions about folks at the next table, when I notices her glance curious at something over my head, then lower her eyes and sort of smile. Course I suspects something worth lookin' at might be floatin' down the aisle; so I half swings around to get a view. And I'd no sooner got it than I wished I hadn't been so curious; for the next second there comes, shrillin' sharp and raspy above the dinin' room clatter, a free and happy hail.
"Well, what do you know! Professor McCabe, ain't it!"
Me—I just sat there and gawped. I don't know as I could be blamed. Course, I'd seen bunchy little blondes before; but this was thefirst time I'd ever seen one that had draped herself in a rainbow. That's the only word for it. The thin, fluttery silk thing with the butterfly sleeves is shaded from cream white to royal purple, and underneath is one of these Dolly Varden gowns of flowered pink, set off by a Roman striped sash two feet wide. And when you add to that such details as gold shoes, pink silk stockin's, long pearl ear danglers, and a weird lid perched on a mountain of yellow hair—well, it's no wonder I was sometime rememberin' where I'd seen them China-doll eyes before.
"Deary," she goes on, turnin' to what's followin' her, "look who's here! Our old friend, the Profess!"
And with that she motions up a dignified old wreck dolled out in a white flannel suit and a red tie. If it hadn't been for that touch of red too, he sure would have looked ghastly; for there was about as much color in his face as there was in his white buckskin shoes. But he steps up spry and active and shoves out a greetin' hand.
I ain't got the nerve, either, to look at Sadie while I'm doin' the introducin'. I was watchin' Mrs. Hackett Wells sort of fascinated and listenin' to her chatter on.
"Well, if this don't froth the eggs!" says she, pattin' me chummy on the shoulder. "Havin' you show up like this! And, say, lemme put you wise,—here's where you wantto stick around for a week or so. Yea, Bo! Perfectly swell bunch here, and something doin' every minute. Why, say, me and Deary has been here six weeks, and we've been havin' the time of our lives. Know what they call me here? Well, I'm the Hot Baby of Sunset Lake; and that ain't any bellboy's dream, either! I'm the one that starts things. Yes, and I keep 'em goin' too. Just picked this place out from the resort ads in the Sunday edition; and it was some prize pick, believe me! 'A quiet, refined patronage of exclusive people,' the picture pamphlet puts it, and I says to Deary, 'Me for that, with three wardrobe trunks full of glad rags.' So you can tell your friend with the face privet that we got to the country after all. Did I miss my guess? Never a miss! Why, say, some of these swell parties lives on West End avenue and the Drive, and I can call half of 'em by their first names. Can't I, Deary?"
And Hackett Wells nods, smilin' at her fond and sappy.
"Drop round to the dancin' pavilion later," says she, "and watch me push him through the onestep. After that me and one of the boys is goin' to tear off a little Maxixe stuff that'll be as good as a cabaret act, and about ten-thirt we'll tease Deary into openin' a couple of quarts in the café. So long! Don't forget, now!" And off she floats, noddin' cheerful right and left, and bein' escorted to her table by both head waiters.
I couldn't stave off meetin' Sadie's glance any longer. "Eh?" says I. "Why, that's only Mabel. Cunnin' little thing, ain't she?"
"Shorty," demands Sadie, "where on earth did you ever meet such a person?"
Then, of course, I had to sketch out the whole story. It was high time; for Sadie's lips was set more or less firm. But when she hears about J. Bayard's wise-boy plans for settlin' the Hackett Wells in some pastoral paradise, and how they got ditched by militant Mabel, she indulges in a grim smile.
"A brilliant pair of executors you and Mr. Steele are," says she, "if this is a sample of your work!"
"Ah, come, don't be rough, Sadie!" says I. "It's hard to tell, you know. What's the odds if they do have to go back to their little Eighth avenue flat next week? They're satisfied. Anyway, Mabel is. She's New York born and bred, she is, and now that she's had her annual blow she don't care what happens. Next year, if Deary hangs on, they'll have another."
"But it's so foolish of them!" insists Sadie.
"What else do you expect from a pair like that?" says I. "It's what they want most, ain't it? And there's plenty like 'em. No, they ain't such bad folks, either. Their hearts are all there. Just a case of vacancy in the upper stories: nobody home, you know."
CHAPTER XIUNDER THE WIRE WITH EDWIN
If you must know, I was doin' a social duck. Not that I ain't more or less parlor broke by this time, or am apt to shy at a dinner coat, like a selfmade Tammany statesman when addressin' his fellow Peruvians. Nothing like that! Pick out the right comp'ny, and I can get through quite some swell feed without usin' the wrong fork more'n once or twice. I don't mind little fam'ly gatherin's at Pinckney's or the Purdy-Pells' now. I can even look a butler in the eye without feelin' shivery along the spine. But these forty-cover affairs at the Twombley-Cranes', with a dinner dance crush afterwards and a buffet supper at one-thirtyA.M.—that's where I get off.
Sadie likes to take 'em in once in awhile, though, and as long as she'll spend what there's left of the night with friends in town, and don't keep me hangin' round until the brewery trucks and milk wagons begin to get busy, I ain't got any kick comin'.
It was one of these fussy functions I was dodgin'. I'd had my dinner at home, peaceable and quiet, while Sadie was dressin', and at thatthere was plenty of time left for me to tow her into town and land her at the Twombley-Cranes', where they had the sidewalk canopy out and an extra carriage caller on duty. I'd quit at the mat, though, and was slopin' down the front steps, when I'm held up by this sharp-spoken old girl with the fam'ly umbrella and the string bonnet.
"Young man," says she, plantin' herself square in front of me, "is this Mr. Twombley-Crane's house?"
"This is where it begins," says I, lookin' her over some amused; for that lid of hers sure was the quaintest thing on Fifth-ave.
"Humph!" says she. "Looks more like the way into a circus! What's this thing for?" and she waves the umbrella scornful at the canopy.
"Why," says I, "this is to protect the guests from the rude stares of the common herd; also it's useful in case of a shower."
"Of all things!" says she, sniffin' contemptuous.
"If you don't like the idea," says I, "suppose I mention it to Mr. Twombley-Crane? Maybe he'll take it down."
"That'll do, young man!" says she. "Don't try to be smart with me! And don't think I'm asking fool questions just out of curiosity! I'm related to Twombley-Crane."
"Eh?" says I, gawpin' at her.
"Cousin by marriage," says she.
"I—I take it all back then," says I. "Excuse my gettin' so gay. Come on a visit, have you?"
"Ye-e-es," says she hesitatin'; "that is, I s'pose we have. We ain't made up our minds exactly."
"We?" says I, gazin' around.
"Mr. Leavitt is behind the tent there, as usual," says she, "and he—— My land! I guess it's jest as well he is," she gasps, as a limousine rolls up to the front of the canopy, a liveried footman hops off the driver's seat, whisks open the door, and helps unload Mrs. K. Taylor French.
Quite some wishbone in front and more or less spinal column aft Mrs. K. Taylor is exposin' as she brushes past us up the strip of red carpet. So you could hardly blame the old girl for bein' jarred.
"Young man," says she, turnin' on me severe, "what's going on here to-night?"
"Dinner dance, that's all," says I.
"You mean they're having a lot of company in?" says she.
I nods.
"Then that settles it!" says she. "We don't go a step nearer to-night. But where we will stay, goodness only knows!"
She was pikin' off, her chin in the air, when it struck me that if these really was jay relations of the Twombley-Cranes, maybe I oughtto lend 'em a helpin' hand. So I trails along until she brings up beside another party who seems to be waitin' patient just under the front windows.
He's a tall, stoop-shouldered gent, with a grayish mustache and a good deal of gold watch chain looped across his vest. In each hand he's holdin' a package careful by the strings, and between his feet is one of these extension canvas grips that you still see in use out in the kerosene circuit.
"Excuse me, Ma'am," says I, "but I'm more or less a friend of the fam'ly, and if you've come on special to visit 'em, maybe you'd better wait while I let 'em know you're here. My name's McCabe, and if you'll give me yours, why——"
"I'm Mrs. Sallie Leavitt, of Clarks Mills," says the old girl.
"Oh, yes," says I, "Clarks Mills. Up Skowhegan way, ain't it?"
"Vermont," says she. "This is Mr. Leavitt. I'm much obliged to you, Mr. McCabe, but you needn't bother about tellin' anyone anything. If they've got company, that's enough. I wish I'd never left Clarks Mills, that's what I wish!"
"Now, Sallie!" protests the other half of the sketch, speakin' mild and gentle.
"That'll do, Mr. Leavitt!" says she decided. "You know very well it was all along of your fussing and fretting about never havingseen your cousin that we come to make this fool trip, anyway."
"I realize that, Sallie," says he; "but——"
"Mr. Leavitt," she breaks in, "will you be careful of them pies?" Then she turns to me apologizin'. "Course, it does seem sort of silly, travelin' around New York with two pumpkin pies; but I didn't know how good a cook the folks had here; and besides I don't take a back seat for anybody when it comes to mince or pumpkin. You see, I was planning to surprise Cousin Twombley by slipping 'em onto the table to-morrow for breakfast."
Say, the thought of what the Twombley-Cranes' English flunkies would do at the sight of pumpkin pie on the breakfast table was most too much for me. As it was, I had a bad coughin' fit, and when I recovered I suggests eager, "Well, why not? They'll keep a day or so, won't they?"
"Not while I'm as hungry as I am now," says she. "And I'm dog tired too. Young man, where'll we find a good, respectable tavern around here?"
"A which?" says I. "Oh! I get you—hotel. Now let's see. Why, I expect the best thing you can do is to jump in one of these motor buses and ride down to—no, I might's well go along, as it's right on my way home. Here's one coming now."
So we piles in, umbrella, pies, and all, andinside of half an hour I've landed the whole shootin' match safe in a two-fifty air-shaft room in one of those punk little ten-story hotels down in the 40's. I showed 'em how to work the electric light switch, got 'em some ice water, and pointed out the fire escape. In fact, I done everything but tuck 'em in bed, and I had said good-night twice and was makin' my getaway, when Mrs. Leavitt follows me out into the hall, shuttin' Hubby in by himself.
"Just one thing more, Mr. McCabe," says she. "I guess you needn't say anything to Twombley-Crane about our bein' here."
"Oh!" says I. "Goin' to spring it on him to-morrow yourself?"
"Maybe," says she, "and then again maybe I won't go near 'em at all. I'm going to think it over."
"I see," says I. "But I expect Mr. Leavitt will be up."
"What, alone?" says she. "Him? Not much!"
"Oh!" says I, and while I didn't mean it to show, I expect I must have humped my eyebrows a little. Anyway, she comes right back at me.
"Well, why should he?" she demands.
"Why, I don't know," says I; "only he—he's the head of the house, ain't he?"
"No, he ain't," says she. "I don't say it in a boasting spirit, for it's always been one of the trials of my life; but Mr. Leavitt ain't atthe head of anything—never was, and never will be."
"Had plenty of chance, I expect?" says I sarcastic.
"Just the same chances other men have had, and better," says she. "Why, when we was first married I thought he was going to be one of the biggest men in this country. Everyone did. He looked it and talked it. Talk? He was the best talker in the county! Is yet, for that matter. Course, he'd been around a lot as a young man—taught school in Rutland for two terms, and visited a whole summer in Bellows Falls. Besides there was the blood, him being an own cousin to Twombley-Crane. Just that was most enough to turn my head, even if that branch of the family never did have much to do with the Leavitt side. But it's a fact that Mr. Leavitt's mother and Twombley-Crane's father were brother and sister."
"You don't mean it!" says I.
"Of course," she goes on, "the Leavitts always stayed poor country folks, and the Cranes went to the city and got rich. When the old homestead was left to Mr. Leavitt, though, he said he wasn't going to spend the rest of his life on an old, worn-out farm. No, Sir! He was going to do something better than that, something big! We all believed it too. For the first six months of our married life I kept my trunk packed, ready to start any minute for anywhere, expecting him to find that grandcareer he'd talked so much about. But somehow we never started. That wa'n't the worst of it, either. A year slipped by, and we hadn't done a thing,—didn't even raise enough potatoes to last us through Thanksgivin', and if we hadn't sold the hay standing and the apple crop on the trees I don't know how we'd got through the winter.
"Along about the middle of March I got my eyes wide open. I saw that if anything was done to keep us out of the poorhouse I'd got to do it. Old Mr. Clark wanted someone to help in the general store about then, and I took the job at six dollars a week. Inside of a year I was actin' postmistress, had full charge of the drygoods side, did all the grocery buyin', and was agent for a horse rake and mower concern. Six months later, when Mr. Clark gave up altogether and the store was for sale, I jumped in, mortgaged the Leavitt place all it would stand, borrowed fifteen hundred dollars from a brother-in-law back in Nova Scotia, and put a new sign over the door. That was over thirty years ago; but it's there yet. It reads, 'Mrs. Sallie Leavitt, General Merchandise.'"
"But where did Mr. Leavitt fit in?" says I.
"Humph!" says she. "Mostly he's set around the store and talked. Oh, he helps with the mail, cooks a little when I'm too rushed and ain't got any hired girl, and washes dishes. That's always been the one useful thing he could do,—wash dishes. I expect that's whyeverybody at the Mills calls him Mr. Sallie Leavitt. There! It's out. I don't know as I ever said that aloud before in my life. I've been too much ashamed. But I might's well face the truth now. He's just Mr. Sallie Leavitt. And if you don't think that hurts for me to have to own up to it, then you're mighty mistaken. Maybe you can guess too why I ain't so anxious to parade a husband like that before folks."
"Oh, well," says I, "sometimes a man gets tagged with a nickname like that and don't half deserve it."
"Huh!" says she. "You don't know Mr. Leavitt as I do. I wa'n't goin' to mention it; but—but—well, he's a book reader."
"A what?" says I.
"Reads books," says she. "Just reads and reads and reads. He's got what he calls our circulatin' lib'ry in a room he's fixed up over the store. Lends out books at five cents a week, you know. But, land! he reads more of 'em himself than any ten customers. History, explorin' books, and novels—specially novels about English society folks, like 'Lady Thingumbob's Daughter,' and so on. And the fool ideas he gets from 'em! I expect you'll laugh, but he actually tries to talk and act like them people he reads about. Learned to drink tea out of books, Mr. Leavitt has, and wants me to quit the store every afternoon about half past four and drink it with him. Think of that!And instead of havin' his supper at night he wants to call it dinner. Did you ever? Yes, Sir, that's the kind of tomfoolery I've been puttin' up with all these years, and tryin' to hide from the neighbors! Maybe you'll notice I always call him Mr. Leavitt? That's why; to cover up the fact that he's only—well, what they call him. And so, cousin or no cousin, I don't see how I'm goin' to bring myself to let the Twombley-Cranes know. Anyway, I want to sleep on it first. That's why I'd just as soon you wouldn't tell 'em we're here."
"I see," says I. "And you can bank on me."
I didn't peep a word, either. It's only the followin' evenin', though, that Sadie announces:
"What do you think, Shorty? A Vermont cousin of Mr. Twombley-Crane is in town, with his wife, and they're going to give them a dinner party Friday night."
"Gee!" says I. "I'd like to be there."
"You will be," says she; "for you are specially invited."
"Eh?" says I. "To meet the poor relations? How's that?"
"Who said they were poor?" says Sadie. "Why, Twombley-Crane says that his cousin's wife is one of the shrewdest business women he's ever heard of. He has been handling her investments, and says she must be worth half a million, at least; all made out of a countrystore, maple sugar bushes, and farm mortgages. I'm crazy to see her, aren't you?"
"What—Sallie?" says I. "Half a million! Must be some mistake."
Course I had to tell her then about the couple I'd run across, and about Mr. Sallie, and the pies, and the string bonnet. We had such a warm debate too, as to whether she was really well off or not, that next day my curiosity got the best of me, and I calls up the hotel to see if the Leavitts are in. Well, they was, and Mrs. Leavitt, when she finds who it is, asks pleadin' if I won't run up and see 'em a little while.
"Please come," says she; "for I'm completely flabbergasted. It's—it's about Mr. Leavitt."
"Why, sure," says I. "I'll come right up."
I finds 'em sittin' in their dull, bare little hotel room, one on each side of the bed, with the extension grip half packed on the floor. "Well," says I, "what's up?"
"Ask him," says she, noddin' at Mr. Sallie.
But Leavitt only hangs his head guilty and shuffles his feet. "Then I'll tell you," says she. "Yesterday he slipped out, hunted up his cousin, and got us invited to dinner. More'n that, he said we'd come."
"Well, why not go?" says I.
"Because," says she, "I—I just can't do it. I—I'm—well, we've been around some since we got here, lookin' into the big stores and so on, and I've been noticin' the women, how theytalk and act and dress and—and—oh, I'm afraid, that's all!"
"Why, Sallie!" says Mr. Leavitt.
"Yes, I am," she insists. "I'm plumb scared at the thought of mixin' with folks like that—just plumb scared. And, as you know, Mr. Leavitt, it's the first time in my life I've ever been afraid of anything."
"Yes, that's so," says he, "that's so, Sallie. But you're not going to be afraid now. Why should you?"
"Listen to him, Mr. McCabe!" says she. "Do you know what he wants me to do? Spend a lot of money on clothes and rig myself up like—like that woman we saw the other night!"
"And you're going to do it too," says Mr. Leavitt. "You can afford to have the best there is,—a Paris frock, and the things that go with it. I mean you shall, not for my sake, but for your own. You're a wonderful woman, Sallie, and you ought to know it for once in your life. I want my cousin to know it too. You've not only got more brains than most women, but you're mighty good looking, and in the proper clothes you could hold up your head in any company."
"Pshaw!" says Mrs. Leavitt, almost blushin'. "Right before Mr. McCabe too!"
"Well, isn't it so?" demands Mr. Leavitt, turnin' to me.
"Why—er—of course it is," says I.
I tried to make it enthusiastic, and if it comeout a little draggy it must have been on account of that ancient lid of hers that's hangin' in full view on one of the bedposts. As a matter of fact, she's one of these straight-built, husky, well-colored dames, with fairly good lines in spite of what the village dressmaker had done to her.
"There!" says Mr. Leavitt. "Now let's have no more talk of going home. Let's go out and get the clothes right now. Perhaps Mr. McCabe can show us where we can buy the right things."
"Land sakes! What a man you are, Mr. Leavitt!" says Sallie, weakenin' a little.
Five minutes more of that kind of talk, and he'd got her to tie on her bonnet. Then, with me leadin' the way and him urgin' her on from behind, we starts on our shoppin' expedition.
"It's to be a complete outfit, from the ground up, ain't it?" says I.
"That's it," says Mr. Leavitt.
So, instead of botherin' with any department stores, I steers 'em straight for Madame Laplante's, where they set you back hard, but can furnish a whole trousseau, I'm told, at an hour's notice.
Mrs. Leavitt was still protestin' that maybe she wouldn't do any more than look at the things, and how she wouldn't promise to wear 'em even if she did buy a few; but you know what smooth salesladies they have in suchplaces. When I left two of 'em was gushin' over Mrs. Leavitt's chestnut-tinted hair that she had piled up in slick coils under the bonnet, and a third was runnin' a tape over her skillful. If it had been anybody but Mrs. Sallie Leavitt, I'd have hated to take chances on havin' to write the check when it was all over.
"Well, is she coming?" asks Sadie that night.
"Search me," says I. "I wouldn't bet a nickel either way."
That was Wednesday. All day Thursday I was expectin' to be called in again, or hear that Sallie had made a break back for Vermont. But not a word. Nor on Friday, either. So at seven o'clock that night, as we collected in the Twombley-Cranes' drawin' room, there was some suspense; for at least half of us were wise to the situation. At seven-fifteen, though, they arrives.
And, say, I wish you could have seen Mrs. Sallie Leavitt of Clarks Mills! I don't know what it cost to work the miracle, but, believe me, it was worth twice the money! Leavitt was dead right. All she needed was the regalia. And she'd got it too,—sort of a black lacy creation, with jet spangles all over it, and long, sweepin' folds from the waist down, and with all that hair of hers done up flossy and topped with a fancy rhinestone headdress, she looked tall and classy. And stunnin'? Say, she had aneck and shoulders that made that Mrs. K. Taylor French party look like a museum exhibit!
Then there was Mr. Leavitt, all dolled up as correct as any cotillion leader, balancin' his silk tile graceful on one wrist, and strokin' his close-cropped mustache with his white glove, just as Mrs. Humphry Ward describes on page 147.
"Well!" gasps Sadie. "I thought you said they were a pair of countrified freaks!"
"You should have seen 'em when they landed with the pies," says I.
And, if you'll believe me, Mr. Leavitt not only had on the costume, but he had the lines too. Sounded a little booky in spots maybe; but he was right there with the whole bag of chatty tricks,—the polite salute for the hostess, a neat little epigram when it come his turn to fill in the talk, a flash or so of repartee, and an anecdote that got a good hand all round the table. You see, he was sort of doublin' in brass, as it were; conversin' for two, you know. For Sallie was playin' it safe, watchin' how the others negotiated the asparagus, passin' up all the dishes she couldn't dope out, and sayin' mighty little. Mostly she's watchin' Mr. Leavitt, her eyes growin' brighter and rounder as the meal progresses, and at last fairly beamin' across the table at him.
I didn't quite get the slant of all this until later, when we'd finished and was trailin' intothe lib'ry. Mrs. Leavitt breaks loose from Twombley-Crane and falls back alongside of me.
"Well, how goes it?" says I. "Wasn't so bad, after all, was it?"
"Don't tell anyone," she whispers, "but I'm so scared I'd like to yell and run away. I would too, if it wasn't for Edwin."
"Who?" says I.
"Mr. Leavitt," says she. "He's going to be Edwin to me after this, though—my Edwin. Isn't he great, though? Course, I always knew he was a good talker, and all that; but to do it in comp'ny, before a lot of city folks—well, I must say I'm mighty proud of such a husband, mighty proud! And anybody who ever calls him Mr. Sallie Leavitt again has got to reckon with me! They'll never have a chance to do it in Clarks Mills. The Mills ain't good enough for Edwin. I've just found that out. And to think that all these years I've believed it was the other way round! But I'm going to make up for all that. You'll see!"
Uh-huh! Mrs. Leavitt's a woman of her word. Soon as she can settle up things at the store, foreclose a few mortgages, and unload a few blocks of stock that can't be carried safe without watchin', it's goin' to be the grand European tour for her and Edwin, and maybe a house in town when they come back.
"Which only goes to show, Mrs. McCabe,"says I, "how it's never too late to discover that, after all, old Hubby's the one best bet on the card."
"Pooh!" says Sadie. "It isn't always safe to let him know it, even if you have."