CHARLIE WEBSTER ENTERTAINS
That evening at the supper table, Mr. Pollock politely informed
him that Alix Crown had returned from Michigan, looking as fit as
a fiddle.
"You've been so sort of curious about her, Court?" (it had not
taken the male boarders long to dispense with formalities), "that
I thought you'd be interested in knowing that she's home. Got back
last evening. Her Packard automobile met her at the depot up in
the city. You'll know her when you see her. Tall girl and fairly
good-looking. Puts on an awful lot of 'dog.' What is it you fellows
in the Army call it? Swunk?"
"Swank," said Courtney, rather shortly. He was still smarting under
the sting of his afternoon's experience.
"Lemme help you to some more squash, Mr. Thane," said Margaret
Slattery in his ear. "And another biscuit."
"Thank you, no," said he.
"What's the matter with your appetite?" she demanded. "You ain't
hardly touched anything this evenin'. Sick?"
"I'm not hungry, Margaret."
"Been out in the sun too much, that's what's the matter with you.
First thing you know you'll get a sunstroke, and THEN! My Uncle
Mike was sunstruck when I was--"
"Pass me the biscuits, Maggie, and don't be all night about it," put
in Mr. Webster. "I'm hungry, even if Court isn't. I can distinctly
remember when you used to pass everything to me first, and almost
stuff it--"
"Yes, and she used to do the same for me before you shaved off your
chin whiskers, Charlie," said Mr. Hatch gloomily. "How times have
changed."
"It ain't the times that's changed," said Margaret. "It's you men.
You ain't what you used to be, lemme tell you that."
"True,--oh so true," lamented Mr. Webster. "I used to be nice and
thin and graceful before you began showering me with attention. Now
look at me. You put something like fifty pounds on me, and then you
desert me. I was a handsome feller when I first came here, wasn't
I, Flora? I leave it to you if I wasn't."
"I don't remember how you looked when you first came here," replied
Miss Grady loftily.
"Can you beat that?" cried Charlie to Courtney across the table.
"And she used to say I was the handsomest young feller she'd ever
laid eyes on. Used to say I looked like,--who was it you used to
say I looked like, Flora?"
"The only thing I ever said you looked like was a mud fence, Charlie
Webster."
"What did she say, Pa? Hey?" This from old Mrs. Nichols, holding
her hand to her ear. "What are they laughing at?"
"She says Charlie looks like a mud fence," shouted old Mr. Nichols,
his lips close to her ear.
"His pants? What about his pants?"
This time Courtney joined in the laugh.
After supper he sat on the front porch with the Pollocks and Miss
Grady. It was a warm, starry night. Charlie Webster and Doc Simpson
had strolled off down the street. Mr. Hatch and Miss Miller sat in
the parlour.
"She's going to land Furman Hatch, sure as you're a foot high,"
confided Mr. Pollock, with a significant jerk of his head in the
direction of the parlour.
"Heaven knows she's been trying long enough," said Miss Grady. "I
heard him ask Doc and Charlie to wait for him, but she nabbed him
before he could get out. Now he's got to sit in there and listen
to her tell about how interested she is in art,--and him just dyin'
for a smoke. Why, there's Alix Crown now. She's comin' in here."
A big touring car drew up to the sidewalk in front of the Tavern.
Miss Crown sprang lightly out of the seat beside the chauffeur and
came up the steps.
"How do you do, Mrs. Pollock? Hello, Flora. Good evening, Mr.
Editor," was her cheery greeting as she passed by and entered the
house.
"She comes around every once in a while and takes the Dowd girls
out riding in her car," explained Mrs. Pollock.
"Mighty nice of her," said Mr. Pollock, taking his feet down from
the porch-rail and carefully brushing the cigar ashes off of his
coat sleeve. "Takes old Alaska Spigg out too, and the Nicholses,
and--"
"We've been out with her a great many times," broke in Mrs. Pollock.
"I think a Packard is a wonderful car, don't you, Mr. Thane? So
smooth and--"
"I think I'll take a little stroll," said Courtney abruptly; and
snatching up his hat from the floor beside his chair he hurried
down the steps.
She had not even glanced at him as she crossed the porch. He had
the very uneasy conviction that so far as she was concerned he
might just as well not have been there at all. In the early dusk,
her face was clearly revealed to him. There was nothing cold
or unfriendly about it now. Instead, her smile was radiant; her
eyes,--even in the subdued light,--glowed with pleasure. Her voice
was clear and soft and singularly appealing. In the afternoon's
encounter he had been struck by its unexpected combination of English
and American qualities; the sharp querulousness of the English and
the melodious drawl of the American were strangely blended, and
although there had been castigation in her words and manner, he
took away with him the disturbing memory of a voice he was never
to forget. And now he had seen the smile that even the most envious
of her kind described as "heavenly." It was broad and wholesome
and genuine. There was a flash of white, even teeth between warm
red lips, a gleam of merriment in the half-closed eyes, a gay tilt
to the bare, shapely head. Her dark hair was coiled neatly, and
the ears were exposed. He liked her ears. He remembered them as he
had seen them in the afternoon, fairly large, shapely and close to
the head. No need for her to follow the prevailing fashion of the
day! She had no reason to hide her ears beneath a mat of hair.
In the evening glow her face was gloriously beautiful,--clear-cut
as a cameo, warm as a rose. It was no longer clouded with anger.
She seemed taller. The smart riding costume had brought her trim
figure into direct contrast with his own height and breadth, and
she had looked like a slim, half-grown boy beside his six feet and
over. Now, in her black and white checked sport skirt and dark
sweater jacket, she was revealed as a woman quite well above the
average height.
He was standing in front of the drug store when the big car went
by a few minutes later, filled with people. She was driving, the
chauffeur sitting in the seat beside her. In the tonneau he observed
the two Dowd sisters, Mr. and Mrs. Pollock and Flora Grady.
As the car whizzed by, A. Lincoln Pollock espied him. Waving his
hand triumphantly, the editor called out:
"Hello, Court!"
The object of this genial shout did not respond by word or action.
He looked to see if the girl at the wheel turned her head for a
glance in his direction. She did not, and he experienced a fresh
twinge of annoyance. He muttered something under his breath. The
car disappeared around a bend as he turned to enter the store.
"That was Alix Crown, Court," remarked Charlie Webster from the
doorway. "Little too dark to get a good look at her, but wait till
she flashes across you in broad daylight some time. She'll make you
forget all those Fifth Avenue skirts so quick your head'll swim."
"Is THAT so?" retorted Courtney, allowing rancour to get the
better of fairness. Down in his heart he had said that Alix Crown
was the loveliest girl he had ever seen. "What do you know about
Fifth Avenue?"
Charlie Webster grinned amiably. He was not offended by the other's
tone.
"Well, I've seen it in the movies," he explained. "What are you
sore about?"
"Sore? I'm not sore. What put that into your head?"
The rotund superintendent of the elevator fanned himself lazily
with his straw hat.
"If I was fifteen years younger and fifty pounds lighter," said
he, "I'd be sore too. But what's the use of a fat old slob like me
getting peeved because Miss Alix Crown don't happen to notice me?
Oh, we're great friends and all that, mind you, and she thinks a
lot of me,--as manager of her grain elevator. Same as she thinks
a lot of Jim Bagley, her superintendent,--and Ed Stevens, her
chauffeur, and so on. Now, as for you, it's different. You're from
New York and it goes against the grain to be overlooked, you might
say, by a girl from Indiana. Oh, I know what you New Yorkers think
of Indiana,--and all that therein is, as the Scriptures would say.
You think that nothing but boobs and corn-fed squaws come from
Indiana, but if you hang around long enough you'll find you're
mistaken. This state is full of girls like Alix Crown,--bright,
smart, good-looking girls that have been a hell of a ways farther
east than New York. Of course, there are boobs like me and Doc
Simpson and Tintype Hatch who get up to Chicago once every three
or four years and have to sew our return trip tickets inside our
belly-bands so's we can be sure of getting back home after Chicago
gets through admiring us, but now since prohibition has come in
I don't know but what we're as bright and clever as anybody else.
Most of the fellers I've run across in Chicago seem to be brightest
just after they change feet on the rail and ask the bartender if he
knows how to make a cucumber cocktail, or something else as clever
as that. But that ain't what we were talking about. We were talking
about--"
"I wasn't talking about anything," interrupted Courtney.
"Oh, yes, you were," said Charlie. "Not out loud, of course,--but
talking just the same. You were talking about Alix Crown and the
way she forgot to invite you to take a ride with the rest of--"
"See here, Webster,--are you trying to be offensive?"
"Offensive? Lord, no! I'm just TELLING you, that's all. On the
level now, am I right or wrong?"
"I do not know Miss Crown," replied Thane stiffly. "Why should I
expect her to ask me,--a total stranger,--to go out in her car?"
"Didn't Maude Pollock introduce you a while ago?"
"No," said the other succinctly.
"Well, by gosh, that ain't like Maude," exclaimed Charlie. "I'd
'a' bet two dollars she said 'I want to present my friend from New
York, Mr. Courtney Thane, the distinguished aviator, Miss Crown,'
or something like that. I can't understand Maude missing a chance
like that. She just LOVES it."
Courtney smiled. "I daresay she wasn't quick enough," he said drily.
"Miss Crown was in a hurry. And I left before she came out of the
house. Now is your curiosity satisfied?"
"Absolutely," said Charlie. "Now I'll sleep soundly tonight. I was
afraid the darned thing would keep me awake all night. Remember
me saying I had a small stock hid away up in my room? What say to
going up,--now that the coast is clear,--and having a nip or two?"
"No, thanks, old man. I don't drink. Doctor's orders. Besides,
I've got some letters to write. I'll walk home with you if you're
ready to go."
II
Mr. Webster shook his head sadly. "That's the one drawback to
livin' in Windomville," he said. "People either want to drink too
much or they don't want to drink at all. Nobody wants to drink in
moderation. Now, here's you, for instance. You look like a feller
that could kiss a highball or two without compromising yourself, and
there's Hatch that has to hold his nose so's he won't get drunk if
he comes within ten feet of a glass of whiskey." They were strolling
slowly toward the Tavern. "Now you up and claim you're on the water
wagon. I'd been counting on you, Court,--I certainly had. The last
time I took Hatch and Doc Simpson up to my room,--that was on the
Fourth of last July,--I had to sleep on the floor. Course, if I
was skinny like Doc and Hatch that wouldn't have been necessary.
But I can't bear sleepin' three in a bed. Doctor's orders, eh? That
comes of livin' in New York. There ain't a doctor in Indiana that
would stoop so low as that,--not one. Look at old man Nichols. He's
eighty-two years old and up to about a year ago he never missed a
day without taking a couple o' swigs of rye. He swears he wouldn't
have lived to be more than seventy-five if he hadn't taken his
daily nip. That shows how smart and sensible our doctors are out
here. They--"
"By the way, Mrs. Nichols appears to be a remarkably well-preserved
old lady,--aside from her hearing. How old is she?"
"Eighty-three. Wonderful old woman."
"I suppose she has always had her daily swig of rye."
Charlie Webster was silent for a moment. He had to think. This was
a very serious and unexpected complication.
"What did you say?" he inquired, fencing for time.
"Has she always been a steady drinker, like the old man?"
Charlie was a gentleman. He sighed.
"I guess it's time to change the subject," he said. "The only way
you could get a spoonful of whiskey down that old woman would be
to chloroform her. If I'm any good at guessin', she'll outlive the
old man by ten years,--so what's the sense of me preachin' to you
about the life preserving virtues of booze? Oh, Lordy! There's
another of my best arguments knocked galley-west. It's no use. I've
been playing old man Nichols for nearly fifteen years as a bright
and shining light, and he turns out to be nothing but a busted
flush. She's had eleven children and he's never had anything worse
than a headache, and, by gosh, he's hangin' onto her with both hands
for support to keep his other foot from slippin' into the grave.
But,"--and here his face brightened suddenly,--"there's one thing
to be said, Court. She didn't consult any darned fool doctor about
it."
Courtney was ashamed of his churlishness toward this good-natured
little man.
"Say no more, Charlie. I'll break my rule this once if it will
make you feel any better. One little drink, that's all,--in spite
of the doctor. He's a long way off, and I daresay he'll never
know the difference. Lead the way, old chap. Anything to cheer up
a disconsolate comrade."
A few minutes later they were in Webster's room, second floor
back. The highly gratified host had lighted the kerosene lamp on
the table in the centre of the room, and pulled down the window
shades. Then, putting his fingers to his lips to enjoin silence,
he tip-toed to the door and threw it open suddenly. After peering
into the hall and listening intently for a moment, he cautiously
closed it again.
"All's well, as the watchman says at midnight," he remarked, as
he drew his key ring from his hip pocket and selected a key with
unerring precision from the extensive assortment. "I always do
that," he added. "I don't suppose it was necessary tonight, because
Angie Miller has got Hatch where he can't possibly escape. Long
as she knows where he is, she don't do much snooping. She used
to be the same way with me,--and Doc, too, for that matter. Poor
Hatch,--setting down there in the parlour,--listening to her talk
about birds and flowers and trying to help her guess what she's
going to give him for next Christmas. It's hell to be a bachelor,
Court."
He unlocked a trunk in the corner of the room, and after lifting
out two trays produced a half empty whiskey bottle.
"I had a dozen of these to begin with," said he, holding the bottle
up to the light. "Dollar sixty a quart. Quite a nifty little stock,
eh?"
"Is that all you have left?"
Charlie scratched his ear reflectively.
"Well, you see, I've had a good deal of toothache lately," he
announced. "And as soon as Doc Simpson and Hatch found out about
it, they begin to complain about their teeth achin' too. Seemed
to be a sort of epidemic of toothache, Court. Nothing like whiskey
for the toothache, you know."
"But Simpson is a dentist. Why don't you have him treat your teeth?"
"Seems as though he'd sooner have me treat his," said Charlie, with
a slight grimace. Rummaging about in the top tray of the trunk,
he produced a couple of bar glasses, which he carefully rinsed at
the washstand. "Tastes better when you drink it out of a regular
glass," he explained. "Always seems sort of cowardly to me to take
it with water,--almost as if you were trying to drown it so's it
won't be able to bite back when you tackle it. Needn't mind sayin'
'when' The glass holds just so much, and I know enough to stop when
it begins to run over. Well! Here's hoping your toothache will be
better in the morning, Court."
"I don't think I ought to rob you like this, Charlie,--"
"Lord, man, you're not robbing me. If you're robbing anybody, it's
Doc Simpson,--and he's been absolutely free from toothache ever
since I told him this room was dry. Excuse me a second, Court. I
always propose a toast before I take a drink up here. Here's to Miss
Alix Crown, the finest girl in the U. S. A., and the best boss a
man ever had. Course I've never said that in a saloon, but up here
it's different,--and kind of sacred."
"I usually make a wry face when I drink it neat like this," said
Courtney.
"You'll like her just as well as I do when you get to know her, boy.
I've known her since she was a little kid,--long before she was
sent abroad,--and she's the salt of the earth. That's one thing on
which Doc and Hatch and me always agree. We differ on most everything
else, but--well, as I was saying, you wait till you get to know
her."
He tossed off the whiskey in one prodigious gulp, smacked his lips,
and then stood watching his guest drink his.
Tears came into Courtney's eyes as he drained the last drop of the
fiery liquid. A shudder distorted his face.
"Pretty hot stuff, eh?" observed Charlie sympathetically.
Courtney's reply was a nod of the head, speech being denied him.
"Don't try to talk yet," said Charlie, as if admonishing a child
who has choked on a swallow of water. "Anyhow," he went on quaintly,
after a moment, "it makes you forget all about your toothache,
don't it?"
The other cleared his throat raucously. "Now I know why the redskins
call it fire water," said he.
"Have another?"
"Not on your life," exclaimed the New Yorker. "Put it back in the
trunk,--and lock it up!"
"No sooner said than done," said Charlie amicably. "Now I'll
pull up the shades and let in a little of our well-known hoosier
atmosphere,--and some real moonshine. Hello! There go Hatch and
Angie, out for a stroll. Yep! She's got him headed toward Foster's
soda water joint. I'll bet every tooth in his head is achin'."
"How long have you been running the grain elevator, Charlie?"
"Ever since David Windom built it, back in 1897,--twenty-two years.
I took a few months off in '98, expecting to see something of Cuba,
but the darned Spaniards surrendered when they heard I was on the
way, so I never got any farther than Indianapolis. Twenty-two years.
That's almost as long as Alix Crown has lived altogether."
"Have you ever seen the grave at the top of Quill's Window?"
"When I first came here, yes. Nobody ever goes up there now. In
the first place, she don't like it, and in the second place, most
people in these parts are honourable. We wouldn't any more think of
trespassin' up there than we'd think of pickin' somebody's pocket.
Besides which, there's supposed to be rattlesnakes up there among
the rocks. And besides that, the place is haunted."
"Haunted? I understood it was the old Windom house that is haunted."
"Well, spooks travel about a bit, being restless sort of things.
Thirty or forty years back, people swore that old Quill and the
other people who croaked up there used to come back during the dark
of the moon and hold high revels, as the novel writers would say.
Strange to say, they suddenly stopped coming back when the sheriff
snook up there one night with a couple of deputies and arrested a
gang of male and female mortals and confiscated a couple of kegs
of beer at the same time. Shortly after old David Windom confessed
that he killed Alix's father and buried him on the rock, people
begin to talk about seeing things again. Funny that Eddie Crown's
ghost neglected to come back till after he'd been dead eighteen years
or so. Ghosts ain't usually so considerate. Nobody ever claims to
have seen him floating around the old Windom front yard before Mr.
Windom confessed. But, by gosh, the story hadn't been printed in
the newspapers for more than two days before George Heffner saw
Eddie in the front yard, plain as day, and ran derned near a mile
and a half past his own house before he could stop, as he told some
one that met him when he stopped for breath. Course, that story
sort of petered out when George's wife went down and cowhided a
widow who lived just a mile and a half south of their place, and
that night George kept on running so hard the other way that he's
never been heard of since. Since then there hasn't been much talk
about ghosts,--'specially among the married men."
"And the rattlesnakes?" said Courtney, grinning.
"Along about 1875 David Windom killed a couple of rattlers up
there. It's only natural that their ghosts should come back, same
as anybody else's. Far as I can make out, nobody has ever actually
seen one, but the Lord only knows how many people claim to have
heard 'em."
He went on in this whimsical fashion for half an hour or more, and
finally came back to Alix Crown again.
"She did an awful lot of good during the war,--contributed to
everything, drove an ambulance in New York, took up nursing, and
all that, and if the war hadn't been ended by you fellers when it
was, she'd have been over in France, sure as you're a foot high."
"Strange she hasn't married, young and rich and beautiful as she
is," mused Courtney.
"Plenty of fellers been after her all right. She don't seem to
be able to see 'em though. Now that the war's over maybe she'll
settle down and pay some attention to sufferin' humanity. There's
one thing sure. If she's got a beau he don't belong around these
parts. Nobody around here's got a look-in."
"Does she live all alone in that house up there? I mean, has she
no--er--chaperon?"
"Nancy Strong is keeping house for her,--her husband used to run
the blacksmith shop here and did all of David Windom's work for
him. He's been dead a good many years. Nancy is one of the finest
women you ever saw. Her father was an Episcopal minister up in
the city up to the time he died. Nancy had to earn her own living,
so she got a job as school teacher down here. Let's see, that was
over thirty years ago. Been here ever since. Tom Strong wasn't good
enough for her. Too religious. He was the feller that led the mob
that wiped out Tony Zimmerman's saloon soon after I came here. I'll
never forget that night. I happened to be in the saloon,--just out
of curiosity, because it was new and everybody was dropping in to
see the bar and fixtures he'd got from Chicago,--but I got out of
a back window in plenty of time. But as I was saying, Nancy Strong
keeps house for Alix. She's got a cook and a second girl besides,
and a chauffeur."
"An ideal arrangement," said Courtney, looking at his wrist-watch.
"I wonder if you ever came across Nancy Strong's son over in France.
He was in the Medical Corps in our Army. He's a doctor. Went to
Rush Medical College in Chicago and afterwards to some place in
the East,--John Hopkins or some such name as that. Feller about
your age, I should say. David Strong. Mr. Windom sent him through
college. They say he's paying the money back to Alix Crown as fast
as he makes it. Alix hates him worse'n poison, according to Jim
Bagley, her foreman. Of course, she don't let on to David's mother
on account of her being housekeeper and all. Seems that Alix is as
sore as can be because he insists on paying the money to her, when
she claims her grandpa gave it to him and it's none of her business.
Davy says he promised to pay Mr. Windom back as soon as he was able,
and can't see any reason why the old man's death should cancel the
obligation. Jim was telling me some time ago about the letter Alix
showed him from Davy. She was so mad she actually cried. He said
in so many words he didn't choose to be beholden to her, and that
he was in the habit of paying his debts, and she needn't be so high
and mighty about refusin' to accept the money. He said he didn't
accept anything from Mr. Windom as charity,--claiming it was a
loan,--and he'd be damned if he'd accept charity from her. I don't
believe he swore like that, but then Jim can't say good morning to
you without getting in a cuss word or two. Alix is as stubborn as
all get out. Jim says that every time she gets a cheque from Davy
she cashes it and hands the money over to Mrs. Strong for a present,
never letting on to Nancy that it came from Davy. Did I say that
Davy is practisin' in Philadelphia? He was back here for a week to
see his mother after he got out of the Army, but when Alix heard
he was coming she beat it up to Chicago. I thought maybe you might
have run across him over in France."
"I was not with the American Army,--and besides there were several
million men in France, Charlie," said Courtney, arising and stretching
himself. "Well, good night. Thanks for the uplift. I'll skip along
now and write a letter or two."
"Snappy dreams," said Charlie Webster.
Just as Courtney was closing a long letter to his mother, the
automobile drew up in front of the Tavern and Alix Crown's guests
got out. There were "good-nights" and "sleep-tights" and then the
car went purring down the dimly lighted road. He had no trouble in
distinguishing Alix's clear, young voice, and thereupon added the
following words of comfort to his faraway mother: "You will love
her voice, mater dear. It's like music. So put away your prejudice
and wish me luck. I've made a good start. The fact that she refused
to look at me on the porch tonight is the best sign in the world.
Just because she deliberately failed to notice me is no sign that
she didn't expect me to notice her. It is an ancient and time-honoured
trick of your adorable sex."
III
The next morning his walk took him up the lane past the charming,
red-brick house of Alix the Third. His leg was troubling him. He
walked with quite a pronounced limp, and there were times when his
face winced with pain.
"It's that confounded poison you gave me last night," he announced
to Charlie Webster as they stood chatting in front of the warehouse
office.
"First time I ever heard of booze going to the knee," was Charlie's
laconic rejoinder. "It's generally aimed at the head."
He made good use of the corner of his eye as he strolled leisurely
past the Windom house, set well back at the top of a small
tree-surrounded knoll and looking down upon the grassy slope that
formed the most beautiful "front yard" in the whole county, according
to the proud and boastful denizens of Windomville. Along the bottom
of the lawn ran a neatly trimmed privet hedge. There were lilac
bushes in the lower corners of the extensive grounds, and the wide
gravel walk up to the house was lined with flowers. Rose bushes
guarded the base of the terrace that ran the full length of the
house and curved off to the back of it.
A red and yellow beach umbrella, tilted against the hot morning
sun, lent a gay note of colour to the terrace to the left of the
steps. Some one,--a woman,--sat beneath the big sunshade, reading
a newspaper. A Belgian police dog posed at the top of the steps,
as rigid as if shaped of stone, regarding the passer-by who limped.
Halfway between the house and the road stood two fine old oaks,
one at either side of the lawn. Their cool, alluring shadows were
like clouds upon an emerald sea. Down near the hedge a whirling
garden spray cast its benevolent waters over the grateful turf, and,
reaching out in playful gusts, blew its mist into the face of the
man outside. Back of the house and farther up the timbered slope
rose a towering windmill and below it the red water tank, partially
screened by the tree-tops. The rhythmic beat of a hydraulic pump
came to the stroller's ears.
Courtney's saunterings had taken him past this charming place
before,--half a dozen times perhaps,--but never had it seemed so
alluring. Outwardly there was no change that he could detect, and
yet there was a subtle difference in its every aspect. The spray,
the shadows, the lazy windmill, the flowers,--he had seen them
all before, just as they were this morning. They had not changed.
But now, by some strange wizardry, the tranquil setting had been
transformed into a vibrant, exquisite fairyland, throbbing with
life, charged with an appeal to every one of the senses. It was as
if some hand had shaken it out of a sound sleep.
But, for that matter, the whole village of Windomville had undergone
a change. It was no longer the dull, sleepy place of yesterday.
Over night it had blossomed. Courtney Thane alone was aware of this
amazing transformation. It was he who felt the thrill that charged
the air, who breathed in the sense-quickening spice, who heard
the pipes of Pan. All these signs of enchantment were denied the
matter-of-fact, unimaginative inhabitants of Windomville. And you
would ask the cause of this amazing transformation?
Before he left the breakfast table Courtney had consented to give a
talk before the Literary Society on the coming Friday night. Mrs.
Maude Baggs Pollock had been at him for a week to tell of his
experiences at the front. She promised a full attendance.
"I've never made a speech in my life," he said, "and I know I'd be
scared stiff, Mrs. Pollock."
"Pooh! Don't you talk to me about being scared! Anybody who did
the things you did over in France--"
"Ah, but you forget I was armed to the teeth," he reminded her,
with a grin.
"Well," put in Charlie Webster, "we'll promise to leave our pistols
at home. The only danger you'll be in, Court, will come from a lot
of hysterical women trying to kiss you, but I think I can fix it
to have the best lookin' ones up in front so that--"
"I wish you wouldn't always try to be funny, Charlie Webster,"
snapped Mrs. Pollock. "Mr. Thane and I were discussing a serious
matter. If you can postpone--"
"I defy anybody to prove that there's anything funny about being
kissed by practically half the grown-up population of Windomville
with the other half lookin' on and cussin' under their breath."
"Don't pay any attention to him, Mr. Thane," said the poetess
of Windomville. "Alix Crown said last night she was coming to the
meeting this week, and I'd so like to surprise her. Now please say
you will do it."
"I really wouldn't know what to talk about," pleaded the young man.
"You see, as a rule, we fellows who were over there don't feel
half as well qualified to talk about the war as those who stayed
at home and read about it in the papers."
"Nonsense! All you will have to do is just to tell some of your
own personal experiences. Nobody's going to think you are bragging
about them. We'll understand."
"Next Friday night, you say? Well, I'll try, Mrs. Pollock, if
you'll promise to chloroform Charlie Webster," said he, and Charlie
promptly declared he would do the chloroforming himself.