As Bill reached the desk and lifted the top, another gray-haired old
man, possibly the same age as Lightnin', though larger and huskier in
build, stole in through the street door and stood there doubtfully,
puffing a cigar. He looked about fearfully, evidently ready to decamp at
an instant's notice; but his glance, traveling back to the figure at the
desk, bespoke a childlike trustfulness in Bill Jones. This gentleman's
clothes were as disreputable as might be, as was his battered
slouch-hat. His face was very red and very unshaven, and his expression
was a comical mixture of uncertainty as to his welcome on the premises
and maudlin kindliness toward the world at large. He rejoiced in the
name of "Zeb," and was a down-and-out prospector, a relic of the past.
His only reason for existence these days seemed to be that he was a
crony and devout satellite of Bill's--to the great aggravation of Mrs.
Jones. There was a legend in the district that Zeb and Bill had spent
many years together in the old days, up and down the trails. There
seemed to be considerable truth in the story. Anyway, no efforts of Mrs.
Jones's or of anybody else's could make Bill forget his pal. Zeb was
always sure of a meal, or a drink and a cigar, provided Lightnin' could
find a way of producing those necessities of a broken-down prospector's
life.
Bill felt around in the desk for a minute, while Zeb watched, fearfully,
hopefully; then Lightnin' turned around, disappointment in his face. But
before he could break the sad news regarding the strange disappearance
of a half-filled flask, Zeb held up a warning finger and began to back
through the door. His ear, ever keen for the swish of Mrs. Jones's
skirts, reported danger.
"What's the matter, Zeb?" Bill asked. "Aw, come back. What ye 'fraid
of?" With a disgusted motion he beckoned Zeb into the room again.
But Zeb, answering the warning that had never failed him, stayed close
to the door, whispering back to Bill, "Where's your old woman?"
"That's all right. Come on in. She ain't here now." Bill, determined in
his search, lifted the lid a second time and began to take out the
contents of the drawer.
Zeb, taking heart, tiptoed up to him and, looking over his shoulder,
murmured, contemptuously, "I don't believe you've got a drop."
"I'll show ye!" Looking intently under the lid, Bill's voice was half
smothered. It stopped short when the kitchen door flew open and Mrs.
Jones burst with emphatic and quick tread into the room.
She did not pay heed to Bill at once. Zeb received the full force of her
mood. "Clear out now!" she called, in no gentle tone, as she swept up to
him--an unnecessary action, as Zeb, catching one glance of the irate
woman, made double-quick time in getting out of the door and down the
steps of the veranda.
Zeb disposed of, Mrs. Jones turned her attention to her errant husband.
Both arms akimbo, she stood still in the middle of the floor and
concentrated her glare upon him.
"Bill Jones," she asked, in a loud, rasping tone, "where have you been?"
Bill had put down the lid at the first hint of her entrance. While she
was addressing Zeb he had quietly slipped behind the desk and busied
himself with the mail which he had drawn from the back pocket of his
trousers. Whistling softly to himself, he sorted the letters, placing
them in their proper pigeonholes.
He did not answer Mrs. Jones at once, but went on whistling. After a
second in which he decided that a soft answer might draw the sting from
her wrath, he stood still and, without looking around, said, gently,
"Hello, mother." Without waiting for a reply, he went on sorting the
mail.
The fire in Mrs. Jones's eye flamed brighter. Nothing exasperated her as
did Bill's refusal to take her tempers seriously. It was not easy to do
all of the fighting--one reason why Bill usually succeeded in carrying
his idleness with a high hand. But this time she was not going to be
ignored. The conference with Hammond and Thomas, the knowledge that he
had been looking for his flask--that he was looking for it more for
Zeb's sake than his own, this time, made no difference--as well as
complaints by the guests because of Bill's tardiness with the mail, had
exhausted her patience and whetted her into bringing Bill to quick
order.
"Do you know what time it is?" She took a step closer to Bill, her
voice retaining its hard ring.
Bill paid no attention to the question, but went on whistling and
sorting the mail.
"It's after two o'clock!" She stamped her foot and glared at him.
Her glare fell on unseeing eyes, her tones on unheeding ears, for the
uneven tenor of Bill's whistle kept up and the spasmodic sorting of the
mail went on.
"Let's see," he said, softly, to himself, "Mrs. Taft's letter--she's in
Number Four, ain't she?" he addressed his wife. Receiving no answer
himself this time, he kept on with his soliloquy, changing the letter to
its proper place. "There! that's right. This one," he said, holding the
envelop to the light and studying it, "is for Mr. Thomas." He hesitated
and looked at it more closely. Placing the other letters on the desk, he
came from behind it and went toward Mrs. Jones.
Noting that Mrs. Jones was interested in the letter and that she had
made a quick move toward him, he changed his mind and sauntered to the
other side of the room, still scrutinizing the letter in his hand. As he
paused, he placed the envelop close to his eyes and read, "Raymond
Thomas Es-_Q._"
Mrs. Jones, her arms folded across her adamant breast, narrowed her eyes
into a quizzical stare. Satisfied that her estimate of Bill's condition
was correct, she hastened to verify it. Going close to him, she
demanded, "Bill, have you been drinkin'?"
For once in his life Bill could prove his innocence. He was quick to
avail himself of the opportunity, and, much to her surprise, he turned
and blew his blameless breath at her.
Mrs. Jones relaxed, exclaiming, in tones of relief, "Thank the Lord!"
"What's He got to do with it?" Bill asked, quickly.
Mrs. Jones smiled. For the time being her manner was mollified. She
followed him to the desk behind which he had returned to the mail-rack.
"You know," she explained, "it's 'way past dinner-time, and if you won't
work, the least you can do is to be on time for your meals."
"I been workin'," Bill chirped, as he placed the last letter in its box
and went toward the dining-room door.
Mrs. Jones placed herself in the middle of the room and in such a way
that Bill could not reach his goal without passing her. "What work have
you been doin'?" The sarcasm in the glance which pierced Bill's shifting
gaze did not pierce his good humor. He continued to chirp. "I got the
mail."
"The mail?" There was contempt in his wife's question and in the answer
she gave to it. "The mail came at ten o'clock."
"I got it, didn't I?" Bill registered another cheerful quip.
Suddenly Mrs. Jones's mind recurred to the day of the month. Her
contempt gave place to anxiety and she stepped close to her husband and
looked into his face again. "Bill, was there a letter for you?" she
asked.
Bill did not answer her with words. Instead he looked away from her and
shook his head slowly.
"Bill Jones," his wife persisted, her tones reverting to their former
clear coldness, "didn't your pension come to-day?"
"To-day?" Bill smiled a self-congratulatory smile for the word which
gave him the loophole of escape. Had his wife omitted that one word he
would have, for his honor's sake, been forced to admit that he had it.
For it was a part of his peculiar code that under no circumstances was
"mother" ever to be lied to. Prevarications, yes, but downright,
indisputable lies, no. And that with vigorous emphasis. But now she had
mentioned the day. The pension had not come to-day. It had reposed in
his pocket since yesterday, where, true to his promise to John Marvin,
it should remain until he had made up his mind to hand it over to his
family. So he felt the coins in his pocket and looked up at her with a
half-guilty grin, drawing out his words one by one, in halting tones.
"Not--to--day."
"Well, when it does come," she said, pleasantly, "Millie's going to go
to Truckee with you and buy you some clothes. You gotta have some new
ones for when we goes to the city."
It was on the tip of Bill's tongue to reaffirm, as he had countless
times, that he was never going to the city as long as he lived; but he
had begun to realize in the last few days that tact must enter into his
negotiations with his dissatisfied spouse. So he responded, mildly, "I
got clothes enough."
Mrs. Jones made an impatient gesture and tossed her head in dismay. "I
don't know what's got into you, Bill Jones. When you came courtin' me
you had good clothes."
"This is the same suit." Bill's jest might have brought further nagging
upon his shoulders, but Millie's entrance from the dining-room turned
Mrs. Jones's attention to her.
"Oh, daddy, you're back!" Millie went quickly to her foster-father and
attempted to put her arms about his neck.
He drew away from her, asking, quickly, "What of it?"
"Are you all right?" Her tones were anxious and her gaze not less so.
Whereupon Bill proved his sobriety just as he had proved it to her
mother.
"Now are you satisfied?" he asked, as she smiled at him.
Kissing him, Millie reminded him gently that it was past dinner-time and
that he had better go into the dining-room, where something hot awaited
him.
"Please come now, daddy," she added. "The girls want to get their work
done."
Bill hesitated. He glanced surreptitiously over at the Nevada desk,
where, to the best of his knowledge, he had deposited a half-filled
flask the night previous. His wife's eye, however, was on him. Suddenly
she stepped up to him and took him firmly by the arm.
"Bill Jones," she said, "you're comin' right inside now an' eat!
Whatever else is on your mind can wait--an' it might be a waste o' time,
anyway!"
Finding himself propelled toward the dining-room, Lightnin' cast an
appealing, whimsical glance at Millie, but she covertly shook her head
to indicate that even she could not gainsay Mrs. Jones just then.
Left alone, Millie busied herself at the desk with some accounts which
she wanted to finish before the arrival of a fresh contingent of guests,
due that afternoon. She put down her pencil after a few minutes of work,
however, and leaned her elbows on the desk, her chin in her hands
thoughtfully. She had a well-defined suspicion as to where Lightnin' had
been the night previous, and--well, Millie was curious about it.
Her reflections were interrupted by the entrance of Lemuel Townsend.
There was an air of importance about him. He was frock-coated and
altogether spick and span.
"Hello, Millie!" he said, walking up to the desk and shaking hands with
her. "I've been trying to get around here all week, but I'm mighty
pressed for time these days, you know! How is everything? You're all
filled up, I suppose?"
"Nevada is full," Millie answered, smiling; "it always is, but the
California side is often empty. Oh, it's great fun--I call it the Hotel
Lopside! Sometimes I'm sorry that we're giving it up."
"Oh! Then you've really decided to put through the idea of selling the
place!"
"Yes. Mother made up her mind this morning, and I more than approve it,
all things considered. Daddy hasn't--hasn't quite agreed, though, but
it's for his own good. I don't quite understand daddy's objections. I
wanted to talk to him this morning about it, but I didn't get a chance.
There's been something mysterious in his manner lately."
"Something mysterious--about Lightnin'?"
"Yes," said Millie, thoughtfully. "Mother hasn't noticed it, of course,
being so busy and worried--and outwardly daddy is his usual easy-going,
amiable self. But I have a feeling that he has--or thinks he
has--something up his sleeve. Daddy can't hide things from me, you know!
Another thing, he doesn't seem to like Mr. Thomas at all--is downright
rude to him at times. I can't understand it, for it isn't like daddy!"
Townsend frowned in a puzzled way. "Perhaps you're taking some of dear
old Lightnin's notions too seriously, Millie," he remarked. "Though I
must say that I have a great deal of faith in Bill. I've been a little
out of touch with the situation lately," he went on, judicially, "but
from what you and mother have told me about the proposed sale, and from
the one or two talks I have had with Mr. Thomas, I am inclined to agree
with you and mother that this sale is an excellent idea. So far as I can
judge, it is a sound investment and all for the best."
"Of course it is!" said Millie. "But now--how about yourself? How is the
campaign going, Mr. Townsend?"
"Splendidly! But it's rather trying, as I have to do most of the
campaigning myself--even the odd jobs!"
He looked down at a bundle of large, printed placards which he carried
under his arm. Withdrawing one, he held it up for her inspection. Millie
read, "Vote for Lemuel Townsend for Superior Judge of the Second
Judicial District."
"Would you mind if I tacked up some of these in the lobby?" he asked,
joining in her laugh.
"Not at all!" Millie exclaimed. "I've a hammer and tacks right here in
the desk. Let me help you--and I do so hope you'll win!"
Chatting, they proceeded to embellish the lobby with Lem Townsend's name
and ambition. Their operations were brought to a pause by the arrival of
the expected new guests.