A FISTIC ENCOUNTER
It is summer again, but in Batemans the town in which we now find our
friends, the Pells, this banner season of the year, does not deck
itself with all the attractions that caused it to be eagerly looked
forward to in Marley.
There are no creek, no hills, no trees, nothing but board walks, board
houses, board fences, and the “boarders we take,” as Rex would conclude
the sentence. And these are the same in summer as they are in winter,
except that they are all hotter and more unpleasant than ordinary.
Batemans is a far Western town. A friend of Mrs. Pell’s was putting up
a hotel there at the time of her trouble. He had appealed to her for
some woman to run it.
“I don’t want a man,” he wrote. “There are too many men out here now. I
want somebody who will give home comforts which I want to make a
speciality of, in place of a bar.”
Mrs. Pell considered it a providential opportunity. She replied stating
that she would take it herself if she could have her children to help
her. And they had gone out there in February.
Mr. Darley had been kindness itself. He not only refused to prosecute
Sydney, but wanted to settle a portion of his fortune on the Pells.
“You are fully entitled to this,” he said. “It is through you that my
boy has been restored to me.”
But Mrs. Pell was firm as Rex had been firm.
“It is enough that you allow us the time in which to make our plans,”
she returned.
Rex never murmured at the prospect of Batemans. Not even when the
dreary aspect of the place, with mud two feet deep in its streets,
first dawned upon him. He felt that he ought to rejoice rather that his
new lot was to be cast so far away from all his old friends.
There were no educational facilities in Batemans; at least none of
which the twins could avail themselves. Then they found plenty to do in
helping their mother.
Rex acted as clerk, made out the bills and received the guests; Roy saw
to the purchasing of supplies, and aided his brother in keeping
objectionable characters out of the house.
There were no amusements and no society except that which they
furnished themselves in the family circle, Roy often thought if he had
had this life to look forward to, his whole previous existence would
have been embittered. But now that he was living it, strength seemed
given him in some way to bear the burden.
Sydney had gone to England. They asked him to write and let them know
how he was getting along, but he would not promise.
Miles wrote regularly to Rex, even when the latter did not reply. He
and his father had moved into the handsome home next the Harringtons’,
with Mrs. Fox as housekeeper.
“I wonder what people think of the thing,” Rex said once to Roy.
There had been no publicity about the transfer. Only a few people knew
of it and the cause.
On this July day on which we are writing, it was unusually hot. The
heat seemed to be frying in the air. It was a day of all others on
which to keep quiet and calm.
But this was the day on which the waiters of the Homestead House had
chosen to go out on strike for an increase of wages which Mrs. Pell was
not empowered to give them. They threw down their aprons just before
the dinner hour at one o’clock.
“Never mind, mother,” said Roy. “Rex and I will pitch in and help.”
And they did, they and Eva and Jess. Rex was just carrying a tray of
dishes into the pantry when he heard a louder voice than usual coming
from one of the tables.
He looked around. He saw Jess, flushed to her hair, standing behind a
young man who had come in with one of the regular guests, and whom he
had not noticed before.
“Come now, I’ll give you a nice tip if you’ll do it for me,” Rex heard
the fellow say.
He thought he recognized the voice. He put his tray down and hurried to
his sister’s side.
She had started to walk away, but the man had caught her by the dress
and held her fast.
“He wants me to go to the saloon across the street and bring him a
bottle of beer,” said Jess.
Rex stooped quickly and disengaged the fellow’s hand with no gentle
touch. In doing so he looked him straight in the face. It was Ashby
Stout.
“Great Scott, it’s little Pell,” exclaimed Stout. Then he added
quickly: “Look here, youngster, what right have you to send that girl
away from here?”
“A brother’s right,” replied Rex promptly.
“Whew!” whistled Stout under his breath, and he turned to Driscoll, the
friend with whom he had come in. “Say, Sammy,” he whispered, “what
position does this chap hold in the place?”
“He’s the manager’s son,” was the reply.
Having accomplished his purpose Rex went on, took up his tray and
carried it into the pantry. His eyes still flashed from anger.
“Jess,” he said, going up to his sister, “you must not go into that
dining room again.”
“But I’ll have to,” she replied, “I’ve got lots of orders to fill.”
“Never mind. I’ll attend to yours and mine, too. I’m not going to have
that ruffian ogling you, I know who he is.”
“You do? Who is he?”
“Never mind. It is enough that I know everything bad about him and
nothing good. Give me your orders.”
And Jess complied. Of course this compelled Rex to wait on Stout. But
he gritted his teeth and went through with the process in dignified
silence, taking no notice of the attempt Stout made to draw him into
conversation.
When dinner was over and Rex was back in his place behind the desk,
making up accounts, Stout strolled in, a cigarette between his lips.
He affected to be examining the register for a little while, then
suddenly looked up to remark: “I say, Pell, that’s a deuced pretty
sister of yours.”
I won’t say that Rex did right, I can’t say that he did wrong, but on
the instant and without a word he leaned forward and hit J. Ashby Stout
a blow on the chin that sent him staggering backward over a chair that
stood just behind him.
There happened to be no one else in the office just at that moment. So
Mr. Stout was obliged to pick himself up, which he did, muttering
wrathfully under his breath, while Rex, very white, went on with his
work.
“If you’re not a coward, sir, you’ll come out here and give me
satisfaction for that insult, sir.”
So spoke Mr. Stout. Rex closed his books and came out in front of the
desk.
“I allow no one to speak of my sister in that tone,” he said.
“And I allow no one to strike me,” blustered Mr. Stout, launching out a
blow directly at Rex’s face.
Rex dodged and planted another blow on Mr. Stout’s chin. Then they both
went at it. Sometimes one was struck, sometimes the other. I am aware
that this is contrary to all precedents in story writing. Following out
these, J. Ashby Stout should have gone down under the first blow, and
then been glad to slink off without risking another encounter with the
redoubtable hero.
But then as I think I have remarked once before, Rex is not the hero of
this story. He is a boy of very impulsive nature, as often wrong as
right in his motives. Perhaps he might have taken a wiser method of
standing up for his sister on the present occasion. Be this as it may,
he did not regret the black eye he went up to his room to bathe a
little while later.
And while the battle did not result in a decisive victory for either
side, it was noticeable that Mr. J. Ashby Stout did not again accompany
Driscoll to the Homestead. But some one else appeared the next day to
whom Rex found it necessary to explain how he came by his battered
visage.