As the train slowed for the station, and a score of other passengers
began to assemble wraps and luggage, Mr. Theodore Mix sat calm and
undisturbed, although inwardly he was still raging at Mirabelle for
making a spectacle of him. It was fully half an hour ago that she had
prodded him into activity, ignored his plea of greater experience in
ways of travel, and compelled him to get the suitcases out to the
platform (she didn't trust the porter), to help her on with her cape,
and to be in instant readiness for departure. For half an hour she had
sat bolt upright on the edge of her seat, an umbrella in one hand and
an antique satchel in the other, and her air was a public proclamation
that no railroad, soulless corporation though it might be, was going
to carry her one inch beyond her destination.
By a superhuman effort, Mr. Mix removed his eyes from Mirabelle's
convention badge. It was a chaste decoration of three metal bars, two
sets of supporting chains, and a half foot of blue silk ribbon, with
white lettering, and Mirabelle continued to wear it for two reasons:
she was proud of it, and Mr. Mix had made his initial attempt to be
masterful, and told her twenty-four hours ago that it looked as though
she belonged to the Third Ward Chowder Club. Since then, she had
reproached him afresh whenever she caught him looking at it. And
inasmuch as it could hardly be avoided by anyone who cast the briefest
glance in her general direction, he had been in hot water from Chicago
to the present moment. He couldn't even escape to the smoking room.
When a man is telling himself that a woman has made a fool of him in
public, and that every one in the neighborhood is amused to watch him,
he finds it peculiarly difficult to carry on a conversation with the
woman. But Mr. Mix saw that Mirabelle was about to converse, and
glowering at a drummer across the aisle, he beat her to it.
"Seems to me the League had an almighty gall to wire you for that
three thousand dollars, Mirabelle. If it had been _my_ money, I'd
have hung on to it until I knew what they wanted it for."
She straightened her lips. "Well, it wasn't, was it?--So I didn't, did
I?... If I can't have faith in my own associates, who _can_ I have it
in? And it isn't a gift; it's a loan. Treasurer said he needed it
right off, and there wasn't anybody else to get it from in a hurry."
She caught his eyes wandering towards her gorgeous insignia, and her
own eyes snapped back at him. "And I hope at least I'm to have the
privilege of doing what I choose with my own money. Don't forget that
women are _people_, now, just as much as men are. After the first of
August, maybe I'll--"
"Mirabelle. Sh-h!"
"No, I won't either," she retorted. "I don't _care_ to shush. After
the first of August, maybe you'll have your share, and I won't presume
to interfere with _you_. So don't you interfere with _me_. If the
League had to have money, it was for some proper purpose. And it
wasn't a gift; it was a loan. And if I couldn't trust--"
"Oh, give it a drink!" said Mr. Mix, under his breath; and while he
maintained an attitude of courteous attention, he barricaded his ears
as best he could, and shut Mirabelle out of his consciousness.
Even in Chicago, he had received bulletins from the seat of war; they
had merely confirmed his previous knowledge that Henry was beaten,
thoroughly and irretrievably. A few more weeks, and Mirabelle would be
rich. Half a million? That was the minimum. Three quarters? That was
more likely. A million dollars? It wasn't in the least improbable. And
Mirabelle had told him more than once, and in plain English, that she
planned to divide with him--not equally, but equitably. She had said
that she would give him a third of her own inheritance. Hm ... a
hundred and fifty to three hundred thousand, say. And what couldn't he
do with such a benefice? Of course, he would have to profess some
slight interest in the League for awhile, but gradually he could slide
out of it--and he hoped that he could engineer Mirabelle out of it.
Mirabelle made herself too conspicuous. But even if Mirabelle stuck
to her colours, Mr. Mix needn't hesitate to drift away--that is, after
he had received his settlement. Late in August, he would make a trip
to New York on business--reform business--and in the glare of the
flaming-arcs, he would compensate himself for his years of penance.
Mirabelle was sharp, but (he smiled reminiscently) in Chicago he had
once managed to hoodwink her; and what man has done, man can do.
"It's nothing to laugh at, Theodore!"
He came to himself with a start. "I wasn't laughing."
"Did you hear what I said?"
"Yes, dear. Certainly."
"Very well. We'll go out, then."
"Out where?"
"Out to the vestibule, just as I said."
"But Mirabelle! We're more than a mile from the station!"
"We're going out to the vestibule, Theodore. I don't propose to get
left."
A moment ago, Mr. Mix had been arguing that the smiles and sympathy of
his fellow-passengers were cheap at the price, but when he rose and
escorted Mirabelle down the aisle, he was telling himself that the
old-fashioned principle was best--the wife's property ought to pass
under the absolute control of the husband. He was strengthened in this
conviction by the fact that two fashionable young men in the corner
were snickering at him.
"Home again," said Mirabelle, with a sigh of relief. "Home again, and
time to get to work. And I'm just itching for it."
Mr. Mix said nothing: he was wondering how soon he could get to his
private cache, and whether he had better put in a supply of young
onions in addition to cloves and coffee beans. He hadn't yet
discovered whether Mirabelle had a particularly keen scent: but he
would take no chances.
"Stop staring at those girls, Theodore!"
"I may be married," said Mr. Mix, defensively. "But I'm dashed if I'm
blind.... Immodest little hussies. We'll have to tackle that question
next, Mirabelle."
The train eased to a standstill: he helped her down to the platform.
The big car was waiting for them: and as the door slammed, Mr. Mix
sat back luxuriously, and beamed at the chauffeur. Yes, virtue had its
compensations; and as soon as he had money to his own credit, he would
figuratively take Mirabelle by the scruff of the neck, and he would
tell her just exactly how to behave, and he would see that she did it.
But for the present--soft diplomacy.
Mirabelle clamped his arm. "Why, what's that policeman stopping us
for, right in the middle of a block!"
"Search _me_...." He opened the door, and he leaned out, imperially.
"What's wrong, officer? We weren't going over twelve or thirteen--"
The policeman, who had brought out a thick book of blank summonses,
and an indelible pencil, motioned him to desist. "What name?"
Mr. Mix swelled, pompously. "But, officer, I--"
"Cut it out. Name?"
"Theodore Mix. But--"
"Address?"
Mr. Mix gave it, but before he could add a postscript, Mirabelle was
on active duty. "Officer, we've got a perfect right to know what all
this fol-de-rol is about. I'm the president of the Ethical Reform
League." She flirted her badge at him. "I'm Mrs. Theodore Mix--used to
be Miss Starkweather. My husband is a personal friend of Mayor
Rowland, and the Chief of Police. I demand to know the reason for this
insult!"
The policeman tore off a page at the perforation, and handed it to Mr.
Mix. "Judge Barklay's Court, Tuesday, 10 A.M.... Why, you're violatin'
City Ordinance 147."
Mirabelle turned red. "Now you see here, young man, I know that
ordinance backwards and forwards! I--"
"Try it sideways," said the unabashed policeman. "Ordinance says
nobody can't engage in no diversion on the Lord's Day. That's today,
and this here limousine's a diversion, ain't it?"
Mr. Mix cried out in anguish, as her grip tightened. "Ouch! It's a
damned outrage! Leggo my arm."
"No, it isn't! Oh, Theodore, don't you see what it _means_--"
"Leggo, Mirabelle! It's a damned outrage!"
"No, it isn't either! Theodore, don't you _see_? The Mayor's
weakened--they probably read your speech at Chicago--they aren't
_waiting_ for the amendment! They're enforcing the ordinance--better
than we ever dreamed of! And that means that you're going to the City
Hall next autumn!" She leaned out and bowed to the gaping officer. "We
beg your pardon. You did perfectly right. Thank you for doing your
duty. Can we go on, now?"
The man scratched his head, perplexedly.
"What are you tryin' to do--kid me? Sure; go ahead. Show that summons
to anybody else that stops you."
In the two miles to the hill, they were stopped seven times, and when
they arrived at the house, Mirabelle was almost hysterical with
triumph. Without delaying to remove her hat, she sent a telegram to
the national president, and she also telephoned to a few of her League
cronies, to bid them to a supper in celebration. Mr. Mix made three
separate essays to escape, but after the third and last trial was
made to appear in its proper light as a subterfuge, he lapsed into
heavy infestivity; and he spent the evening drinking weak lemonade,
and trying to pretend that it belonged to the Collins family. And
while his wife (still wearing her insignia) and his guests were
talking in a steady stream, Mr. Mix was telling himself that if
Ordinance 147 was going to prevent so innocent an occupation as riding
in a car on Sunday, he was very much afraid that life in this
community was going to be too rich for his blood. That is, unless he
were elected to be chief of the community. And in this case, he would
see that he wasn't personally inconvenienced.
* * * * *
At half past seven in the morning, Mirabelle was already at the
breakfast table, and semi-audibly rating Mr. Mix for his slothfulness,
when he came in with an odd knitting of his forehead and an unsteady
compression of his mouth. To add to the effect, he placed his feet
with studied clumsiness, and as he gave the _Herald_ into Mirabelle's
hands, he uttered a sound which annoyed her.
"For the cat's sake, Theodore, what are you groaning about?"
"Groan yourself," said Mr. Mix, and put a trembling finger on the
headline. As he removed the finger, it automatically ceased to
tremble. Mr. Mix didn't care two cents for what was in the _Herald_,
but he knew that to Mirabelle it would be a tragedy, and that he was
cast for the part of chief mourner.
"Well, what's _that_ to groan about? I'd call it a smashing
victory--just as I did last night. And _our_ being caught only
shows--"
"Rave on," said Mr. Mix lugubriously, and stood with his hands in his
pockets, jingling his keys.
"Certainly! It shows they meant business. It shows _we_ did. We'll
take our own medicine. And the amendment--" She broke off sharply; her
eyes had strayed back to the smaller type. "Good grief!" said
Mirabelle, faintly, and there was silence.
Mr. Mix came to look over her shoulder.
LEADING REFORMERS ARRESTED
FOR VIOLATING OWN PET LAW
_Police Issue Over 2800 Summonses to Golfers, Pick-
nickers, Canoeists, Cyclists, Hikers and Motorists_
including Mr. and Mrs. Theodore Mix
MAYOR PUTS OVER UNIQUE REFERENDUM
TO SEE WHAT PEOPLE REALLY WANT
_Special Meeting of Council Called This Morning_
Entire City Roused to Fight Blue-Law-Campaign:
Mix Amendment Doomed: Ordinance 147 Sure to be
Modified
Mirabelle collected herself. "What are you standing around gawking
like that for? Find out what time that meeting is. Telephone every
member of the committee. They won't have any meeting without _us_, not
by a long, long row of apple-trees!"
"Save your strength," said Mr. Mix, with a spiritual yawn.
"Save my strength! Well, what about saving my five thousand dollars
for--for missionary work!"
"The missionary fund," said Mr. Mix, "seems to have fallen among
cannibals. Save your energy, my dear. This isn't reform; it's
elementary politics, and Rowland's used the steam-roller. As a matter
of fact, we're stronger than we were before. If they'd passed my
amendment, a lot of voters might have said it wouldn't do any good to
elect me Mayor; when all my best work was done beforehand. Now I've
got a _real_ platform to fight on. And the League'll have a real fund,
won't it? You put up forty or fifty thousand, and we'll stage a
Waterloo."
"And you can stand there and--oh, you coward!"
He shook his head, with new dignity. "No, you're simply lucky Rowland
didn't think of it a year ago. If he _had_, and--" Mr. Mix broke off
the sentence, and turned pale.
"What's the matter, Theodore?"
Mr. Mix slumped down as though hit from behind. "Mirabelle--listen--"
His voice was strained, and hoarse. "I may have to have some money
today--four or five thousand--"
"I haven't got it."
He stared at her until she backed away in awe. "You--you haven't
_got_--four or five _thousand_--?"
Mirabelle began to whimper. "I've been so sure of--of August, you
know--I've spent all Mr. Archer sent me. I--"
As he stepped forward, Mirabelle retreated. "You've got something of
your own, though?" It wasn't an ordinary question, it was an agonized
appeal.
"Only a separate trust fund John set up for me before he died--fifty
thousand dollars--I just get the interest--sixty dollars a week."
Mr. Mix sat down hard, and his breathing was laboured.
"Great--Jumping--Jehosophat!" He wet his lips, repeatedly.
"Mirabelle--listen--if they modify that ordinance--so Sunday shows are
legal again--those other fellows'll want to buy back--their
contracts--from Henry. There's only a few weeks--but if Henry only
raised a thousand dollars--he'd be so close to his ten thousand--" He
reached for a glass of water and drank it, gulping. "Henry'll see
_that_--he's got his eyes open every minute.... We've got to cut
inside of him. Prevent those fellows from buying their Sunday leases
back. Get hold of the man that's the boss of the Exhibitors'
Association. Tell him we'll buy a _second_ option to lease the whole
string of theatres for six weeks, subject to our getting a release
from Henry. As if the League wanted 'em or something. Offer a big
enough rent so they'll _have_ to accept--so they'd get more out of
_us_ than if they opened up. Then they _can't_ buy back from
Henry--and he's over a thousand short. I _know_ he is. And if you
don't do it--" His gesture was dramatic.
Mirabelle's expression, as she wiped her eyes, was a pot-pourri of
sentiments. "Humph! Can't say I like the idea much, kind of too
tricky."
Mr. Mix played his last card. "Don't the ends justify the means? You
and I'd be philanthropists, and _Henry_--" He watched her quiver. "And
with a fund such as _we'd_ have, we'd begin all over again, and next
time we'd win, wouldn't we?"
"Theodore. I've got fifty one hundred in the bank. It has to last
'till August. If you took five thousand _more_--"
He snatched at the straw. "You bet I'll take it. It's for _insurance_.
And you telephone to Masonic Hall and see what's left of the three
grand you wired 'em from--"
"The what?"
"The money you sent from Chicago. Get what's left. Soon as I find out,
I'll hustle down town and get busy."
Mirabelle wavered. "The Council's going to--"
Mr. Mix gave her a look which was a throwback to his cave-man
ancestry. "To _hell_ with the Council!"
For an instant, her whole being rebelled, and then she saw his eyes.
"A-all right," she faltered. "I--I'll telephone!"
Inside of five minutes, she told him that of her loan, there was
nothing left at all. The money had been wanted for the two-year rental
of a new hall, at 300 Chestnut Street; the owner had made a marked
concession in price for advance payment.
"Never mind, then," he rasped. "That's cold turkey. Give me a check
for every nickel you've got.... And I'll want the car all day. I want
a cup of coffee. And you wait right here until I get word to you what
to do next."
"Couldn't I even--"
"You stay here! Far's _I_ know, I'll have you making the rounds of the
hock-shops to cash in your jewelry. But--" He relaxed slightly. "But
when it's for reform, my dear--when it's for civilization--the
League--isn't it worth _any_ sacrifice?"
A spark of the old fire burned in her eyes. "Humph! Good thing _one_
of us has _got_ something to sacrifice, if anybody asked me. But
here's your coffee.... Don't make such a horrid noise with it,
Theodore."
* * * * *
At noon, he telephoned her two pieces of news. The Council, fairly
swamped with hundreds of outraged voters, had promptly modified the
existing ordinance, and rejected--unanimously--the Mix amendment. And
Mr. Mix, who had spent three hours in conference, and in battle, had
emerged victorious.
"Thank Heaven, we're safe!... And it only costs thirty-nine hundred.
(Five of this was Mr. Mix's self-granted commission.) I've bought a
second option on every last house in town. And I'll need the car all
afternoon. I've got to run all over everywhere and close these
deals.... What are you going to do?"
"Why," she said with a rueful glance at her check-book. "I guess I'll
go down and see how soon I can get that loan back. I'm not used
to--putting off tradesmen's bills, Theodore. I wasn't brought up to
it."