CALEB CONOVER GIVES A READING LESSON
Conover, during the month that followed, found time from his
financial warfare to make three more calls at the Standish house. The
soft-hearted Divinity of children and fools was merciful to Letty on
those occasions, inasmuch as there were each time other guests on the
dusky piazza. The girl thus avoided intimate talk of any long duration
with her giant visitor. Yet she noted with helpless dread that at every
successive visit the Fighter’s manner told more and more of a subtle
understanding between them; of an increasing sense of possession.
Wildly, impotently Letty resented this. But she watched its growth with
a dazed fascination.
By turns she clung to Caine in a mad craving for protection;
or repulsed him with pettish impatience as a defense which she
instinctively felt would not be strong enough to guard her when her
hour of stark need should come.
More than once it occurred to Letty to tell Caine all her fears. But,
stripped of woman’s formless, illogical intuition, what was there to
tell? She had no shadow of actual fact to go on; and men demand facts.
So she continued to puzzle her lover by alternate spells of effusive
demonstration and chilling sulks.
The ever-ready tears, too, began to leave marks. She was not looking
her best. In her lonely misery the girl was glad of this. She wished
Conover would call by daylight instead of at night, so that he might
see and be repelled by what she was pleased to term the “ravages”
his attentions were wreaking on her once placid face. Caine and her
father, it is true, gave most flattering heed to these “ravages”; but
heartlessly ascribed them to hot weather and need of change to the
country.
Mrs. Standish’s vitreous gaze, too, mingled a mild curiosity with
its irritating benevolence. Once she asked Letty quite tactfully if
the engagement with Caine were not perhaps a mistake and if the girl
might not be in danger of blighting her God-given young life by a
loveless marriage. To which random shot Letty paid the passing tribute
of a flood of tears that convinced Mrs. Standish of her own spiritual
inspiration in putting the question. The net result of it all was that
Letty and her aunt were packed off, with Clive, to the seaside for a
month.
Miss Standish’s departure did not greatly trouble Caleb. He himself was
nearing the beginning of his much heralded “first vacation.” Indeed,
Caine, coming disconsolately to the Fighter’s room, one evening, just
after seeing Letty’s train off, found Conover sitting on the floor
beside an open trunk. A mass of clothing, also on the floor, radiated
away from the trunk on every side. Perspiring, red of face, Caleb was
reaching out methodically for garments, folding them with slow care of
the self-made man and stowing them away in fast-rising layers in the
leathern maw that gaped so hungrily for them.
“I’ve just come from seeing Miss Standish and her aunt off to Block
Island,” announced Caine, routing a pile of clothes from a chair and
seating himself.
“Block Island, hey?” said Caleb, “Anything like Coney?”
“No,” laughed Caine, “nor like any other place on earth. A
treeless plateau above the ocean. Ugly at first glance, but with a
hundred-year-old charm that somehow grips one. Sea, sunshine and wind;
and the eternal roar of the surf.”
“H’m!” grunted Caleb, disapprovingly, “Nice, lively sort of a joint for
a busy man to go lookin’ for fun! ’Bout as jolly as its own jail, I
should think.”
“It has no jail,” retorted Caine, “No jail, no almshouse, no asylum.
There hasn’t been a criminal, nor a pauper, nor an insane person on the
whole island in a century. There is only one policeman--or was when I
used to go there. And he used to take turns serving as driver of one
of the Island’s two horse-cars. There’s a historic yoke of oxen, too,
that--”
“Not a jail--or a crime--or an institootion of any sort?” cried
Conover. “Son, you’re stringin’ me! What do the local pol’ticians do
for a livin’, then? If Noo York’s a paradise for grafters, this Block
Island of yours must be a hell for ’em. Ain’t anyone ever waked up
there to the chances that’s layin’ around waitin’ to be took?”
“Don’t talk that way when you see the Standishes again,” counseled
Caine, “Mrs. Standish looks on Block Island as part of her religion.
She--”
“Yes,” grinned Caleb. “I s’pose so. I can see the old lady doin’
saint-poses on the sand there.”
“All her attitudes are beatitudes,” agreed Caine. But as far as
concerned Conover’s comprehension, he might as well have said it in
Greek.
“By the way,” went on Amzi, “I have some fairly sure information from
our political reporter that ought to interest both of us. It’s about
Blacarda.”
“If you mean Blacarda’s got next to the Gov’nor and arranged a special
session of Legislature in September,” interposed Caleb, “I knew that a
week ago. The Starke bill’s to be flashed on ’em in a new form, without
our gettin’ wind of it, an’ it’s to be rushed through, with an idea of
knockin’ our Steeloid combine flatter’n a pancake.”
“You knew all this a week ago? Why didn’t you--?”
“It’s my business to know things,” replied Conover, “If I didn’t, I’d
be takin’ orders still, instead of givin’ ’em. As for not tellin’
_you_, what was the use? You’d a’ found it out soon enough; an’ I’ve
been too busy to run an inf’mation bureau. I’ll be ready for Friend
Blacarda an’ his crowd when the time comes; same’s I was before.
Just because I don’t hire a brass band to p’rade the streets carryin’
a placard of my plans, you mustn’t run away with the idee that I’m
overlookin’ any bets. I’ve got everything in line. We’ll win out, same
as we did last Spring; an’ by a bigger margin.”
“But you may be detained as you were before. And next time you may not
get back soon enough. Blacarda will move heaven and earth to keep you
away. He knows by now,--as we all do,--that you weren’t boasting when
you said your presence in the lobby meant all the difference between
defeat and victory.”
“That’s right,” said Caleb, gently flattered, “But I’ll be on deck.
It’s a way I’ve got. There’s always a bunch of weak-spined chaps in
our crowd in the Assembly that’s so scared at reform threats an’ all
such rot that they’re ready to stampede if I’m not on hand to hammer
the fear of the Lord into ’em. An’ that same crowd’s still big enough
to turn the vote if they bolt to cover. But they won’t. I’ll be there.
Blacarda ain’t likely to play the same game twice. Apart from its bein’
useless, he’s too scared. An’ there’s not another trick in all the pack
that can get past my handy little bunch of secret service men.”
“But if the bill _should_ pass--”
“It ain’t goin’ to. How often have I got to ding that into your head?
It ain’t goin’ to.”
“Perhaps I’m over-anxious,” Caine defended himself, “But you
must remember, practically all my money is in Steeloid. On your
recommendation I have put every available dollar in it. So have
Standish and a half dozen others I know.”
“Then lay back an’ be happy,” advised Conover, “After that bill is
smashed an’ the public sees Steeloid is on the ground to stay, the
stock’ll take another big hop. If you an’ Standish an’ the others have
a few thousands to use in buyin’ on margin you’ll clean up a good
lookin’ pile. I’ve got other deals on now that make Steeloid look like
thirty cents. So I ain’t lyin’ awake worryin’ on my own account. It’s
as much for you fellers as for myself that I’m goin’ to get down to
work on the Blacarda matter, as soon as I come back from my vacation.
It’ll mean a week or two of big work, on the quiet. Then the bill’s
comin’ up an’--goin’ down for keeps.”
“You’re awfully good to give us these tips,” said Caine “And we all
appreciate it. But aren’t you afraid Blacarda may attack some other
interests of yours as well as Steeloid? He hates you; and he is not the
sort of a man to confine himself to a single line of revenge.”
“There’s where you’re wrong, son,” answered Conover, “The trouble with
you people is, you get all your learnin’ from books wrote by other
folks as stoopid as yourselves. The thing to study ain’t a book. It’s
your feller-man. Then there’d be fewer folks took in by gold-brick
games. Look at me, now, f’r instance. I never read a book clear through
in my life. But there ain’t a man of my ’quaintance I haven’t read
through. So, they’re as easy for me to read as a primer. Now, _you_
look at Blacarda as a sort of man who’s li’ble to attack me from a
dozen sides at once. That’s ’cause you can’t read him. I can. An’ I
know what he’s li’ble to do an’ what he ain’t. Blacarda b’longs to the
King Cobra class. Harmless as a kitten to them that knows where his
poison’s hid, an’ only dang’rous to folks that picks him up by the
wrong end.”
Caleb, warming to his theme, leaned back against the corner of the
table and laid down the coat he was folding.
“Men who read men,” said he, oracularly, “rule men. Men who read books
are ruled by the folks who wrote them. That’s the diff’rence. Let me
explain what I mean by what I said ’bout cobras. I had to run down to
Noo York last fall on business. I had a couple of hours on my hands
an’ I went up for a look at the Bronx Zoo, there. I went into a squat,
Dago-lookin’ joint called the ‘Rept’l House.’ Full of snakes and
crawly, slimy things. Big crowd in front of one glass cage. Only snake
in that cage was a big, long, brown critter with an eye that wa’nt good
to look at. The sign said he was a King Cobra an’ habitated somewhere
or other. The attendant wanted to wash the winders of that cage from
the inside. What does he do? Does he put his arms in an’ wiggle a mop
within reach of Mister King Cobra? Not him. He, or his boss, I guess,
had learned to read snakes like I read men. What does he do? He slaps
open a little door in the back of the cage, slings in a two-foot black
snake an’ slams shut the door, quicker’n scat, before the Cobra knows
what’s up. There lays the little black snake wrigglin’, scared like, on
the floor of the cage among a lot of little red lizards that’s runnin’
’round in the sand.
“The King Cobra lifts up till his head’s about six foot above ground,
an’ he looks down at the wrigglin’ black snake, like he was sizin’ up
whether the little feller has any fight in him or not. An’ say! It was
’nough to give a feller the creeps to see that cobra-snake’s eye as he
watched ’tother. Then, he seems to make up his mind the black snake
ain’t bent on c’mittin’ sooside by beginnin’ the fight. So down swoops
the King Cobra with a sort of rustly, swishin’ rush; an’ he grabs the
little snake around the middle. No--not by the head or tail. He’s more
mad than hungry. So he grabs him by the middle. An’ he hangs on.
“Now what does the attendant do? He opens the door at the back, kneels
on the threshold, leanin’ out right above the King Cobra, an’ ca’mly
begins washin’ the winders with his long mop. Ev’ry swipe that man
makes at the glass, his hand comes within a foot of the Cobra. But he
didn’t even look at the big, pizenous brute coiled up there below his
hand. He goes on washin’ the winder like there wasn’t a snake within
ten miles.”
“But,” asked Caine, interested in spite of himself, “there was surely
danger that the Cobra might drop the little snake and strike at the
man? If--”
“That’s just the point!” cried Caleb, “He wouldn’t. His pizen an’ his
temper was otherwise engaged. He’d sunk his fangs into one en’my. An’
it ain’t cobra natur’ to let go, once he’s got his grip. I found that
out by askin’ one of the keepers. The man with the mop was as safe in
that cage, just then, as he’d a’ been in a Meth’dist Conf’rence. The
Cobra had just one idee. An’ that idee was already on the job.
“Now, maybe you’re wonderin’ what this long yarn has to do with
Blacarda. It has ev’rything to do with him. He’s the King Cobra sort,
if ever any man was. An’ in his case, I’m the man with the mop.
Blacarda’s fitted out with a whole lot of fancy venom. An’ he’d like
nothin’ better’n to get his fangs in me. I can’t say I exac’ly blame
him. But I ain’t hankerin’ to get bit. So I throws into his cage a
little snake called ‘Steeloid’. An he nabs it. So long’s he’s got
his teeth in that, he ain’t got the bigness of mind to bite anything
else. When Steeloid’s over, I’ll toss him another little snake, an’ so
on to the end of the chapter. He’ll keep gnawin’ away, with the idee
he’s hurtin’ me terr’ble. An’ I’ll go ’bout my winder-washin’ bus’ness
meanwhile; knowin’ he’s too much took up with his little snake to do
me any hurt. Why, son, ’twas one of _my_ men that put Blacarda up to
this scheme of gettin’ a Special Session called so he could knock my
Steeloid Comp’ny out.”
Caine made no reply; but watched Caleb mop the perspiration of unwonted
verbosity from his forehead. At last he asked, with his bantering smile:
“Have you read _me_, by any chance?”
“Have I read my A. B. C.?” retorted Caleb in fine contempt.
“But--”
“I’m not buyin’ a red can’py an’ givin’ two-dollar character readin’s,”
said Conover brusquely, “Ever in the Adirondacks? Anything to do there?”
“Plenty--for the man who can appreciate its glories,” retorted Caine
with pleasant insolence, “Very little for a man of your type, I should
fancy. Why?”
“I hoped maybe you could put me on to some of the pointers,” answered
Caleb. “It’s the first vacation I ever had. An’ I want all the fun out
of it I can get. But I’m blest if I know where the fun comes in.”
“A ward-heeler would probably regard a Corot in much the same way,”
observed Caine, still inwardly smarting at the Fighter’s good natured
contempt, “But surely Miss Shevlin must have told you in some of her
letters the sort of life they lead there--something of her amusements?
You can probably get a better idea of it all from her letters than from
anything I could tell you. Doesn’t she--?”
“Oh, ev’ry letter she writes is full of it,” acquiesced Caleb,
gloomily, “But I can’t make out what the good times are. Just listen to
this, f’r instance. First letter I had from her. No. The second.”
From a drawer he drew a small metal case, unlocked and opened it. It
was full of letters. Each envelope that met Caine’s inquisitive eye
bore Desirée Shevlin’s handwriting. Selecting one from the budget,
Caleb opened it with a strangely gentle motion of his stubby fingers,
glanced in silence over a few lines, then read aloud:
“‘It’s like some wonderful dream; and every day I’m afraid I shall
wake up and find it isn’t so. The air is like crystal that has been
dipped in balsam.’ Why in blazes,” interpolated Conover, in perplexity,
“should anybody want to dip crystal in balsam. I can’t--”
“Go on,” adjured Caine, “I understand.”
“‘I feel as if I were on the top of the world,’” pursued the letter,
“‘The sky is so big, so near. And it seems to rest on the crests of
these splendid old mountains. The Antlers is on a side hill, partly
cleared of forest and running down to Raquette Lake. The hotel is white
and it’s on the top of the slope. It’s a nice hotel, they say. I’ve
only been in it twice. Almost nobody is ever indoors except at night or
when it rains. And most of the people don’t live at the hotel itself.
They live in the cottages and lodges and tents; and eat in the two big
dining rooms that are houses by themselves. It’s the outdoorest place I
ever saw. We row and fish and tramp and swim and loaf all day, and go
on picnics. And late in the afternoons there’s a regular fleet of boats
that put out into the lake to watch the sunset. “The Sunset Fleet,” I
call them. And in the evenings we go to the open camps and lie back
among the balsam boughs and watch the big camp fires and tell stories
and sing college songs. And sometimes we coax Ed Bennett to come down
to the camp with his violin and give us “_The Arkansaw Traveler_”
or tell us one of his stories. He has the vocabulary of a college
professor. He knows all the Adirondack books, and he reads us chapters
from them.
“‘And by ten o’clock, generally, everybody is in bed, sleeping as no
one can sleep in town. One man in a tent left his mouth open when he
went to sleep the other night, and made funny V-shaped noises that got
all three of the dogs to barking and waked everybody up. There’s the
_loveliest_ collie here. His name is Rex. He has adopted me and goes
everywhere with me. Sometimes even when I haven’t any candy to give
him. I wanted to buy him and take him home. But Mr. Bennett,--not Ed,
but his brother, the proprietor,--won’t sell him for any price. Isn’t
it horrid? Rex and Siegfried-Mickey would get on beautifully together,
I know. And their color schemes harmonize so perfectly.
“‘And--Oh, I forgot!--there’s a yellow kitten here, too, that’s made
friends with me. And what do you suppose one of the boys did the other
evening? We had a welsh-rarebit party at the open camp, and he poured
beer all over the yellow kitten’s fur, just before we went away. And
of course, cat-like, she licked it all off. And she came bounding into
my room ten minutes later in a perfectly _scandalous_ condition. The
beer she had licked up from her fur had gone to the poor little thing’s
head. Her eyes were as big as saucers and she purred all the time
like a wagon-ful of rattly steel rails. And she went dancing ’round
in circles on three legs and trying to climb the wall; till she fell
asleep in my waste basket. Wasn’t it a shame? I’m sorry I laughed. But
she _did_ look so weird. And her fur smelt so horribly of beer that I
_couldn’t_ pick her up and try to reason with her. Next day she was the
living picture of remorse. I got her some ice to lap and put a blue
ribbon on her.
“‘I know you’ll love the Adirondacks. Just think! In six weeks and
two days you’ll be here. By the way, you must remember not to speak
of coming “up” to the Adirondacks, or going down from them. Nobody
does. They all speak of coming “in” and going “out”. I don’t know why.
Neither does anyone I ask. Perhaps that’s the reason. I’m saving all
the beautifullest places to show you. The prettiest rows, the wildest
trails. Perhaps we can see a deer. Wouldn’t it be fun? I do so want
to see one before I go. And we’ll climb Blue Mountain and make the
trip through the chain of lakes, too. Can’t you come earlier than you
planned? I hate to think you’re missing all this glorious time.’”
“An’ a lot of the same sort,” added Caleb, folding and putting away the
letter with unconscious tenderness, “Writes dandy letters, don’t she?
But it don’t make sense to me. So far’s I can see, there’s nothin’ to
do but get cats drunk and watch camp fires an’ get all het up by rowin’
an’ climbin’ hills. Where’s the fun in all that for a grown man?”
“Miss Shevlin will be there,” suggested Caine.
“Course she will,” said Caleb, “Otherwise, d’you s’pose I’d waste my
time goin’? I wonder how I was ever jollied into promisin’.”
“Conover,” remarked Caine, rising to leave, “You may have spent a long
time learning to read men; but what you don’t know about women--and
about yourself, for that matter--would fill a Carnegie Library.
Goodnight.”