“Mister Van Veen is down-stairs and wants to know if he can come up.”
“Tell him it’s a public place,” says Magpie, “and that I can’t stop
him.”
He came. The first thing I noticed was that he’s got dimples where his
knuckles ought to be, and his finger-nails are pink. His face is fat and
pink, and he wears specs that would make good magnifying glasses, and he
anchors them to his person with a yard of crape ribbon. He exudes a
scent that you’d naturally connect with a lisp and he carries a cane.
He stands there in the doorway, peering at us like a dude owl, and
pretty soon he hauls out a big silver case, takes out one of them
cigarets what smell like a disinfectant, taps same three times on the
case, and clears his throat. I names him “Pinky” right there.
“My ——!” snorts Magpie. “Am I related to that?”
“I am—er—looking for Samuel White,” says he. “Which one of you—er—gents
are he?”
“I are he,” says Magpie. “But I’m no er-gent. What you selling?”
“Selling? Haw! I am your—er—relative. Mr. Wilberforce Van Veen, at your
service.”
“Thanks,” says Magpie, “I don’t need you today. Come on in and rest your
feet. How’s the folks?”
“Thank you. Very well, I thank you. I read in the _Clarion_ of your
arrival, and it was a great—er—surprise, I assure you. How do you find
Redfield?”
“By getting on the right train and getting off at the right depot,” says
Magpie. “Meet Bedrock Benson and Homely Hobbs, Van.”
“Aw! Pleasure, I assure you,” says he.
“Glad you think so,” says Homely.
“How’s your folks?”
“Well, I thank you,” and then he turns to Magpie: “May I have a few
minutes’ private conversation with you, Samuel?”
“Shoot,” says Magpie, “don’t mind these hombres, Van. They know more
about my business than I do, so don’t mind them in the least.”
“It is in regard to—er—Marion and the Duke of Northmore,” says he,
nervous like, lighting another joss-stick. “You—er—must have intimated
to the reporter that you were not in favor of the union, and—er—I came
up to ask you to call them up and—er—sort of correct the error, don’t
you know? They must have misunderstood you. The preparations for the
wedding are under way, and such a report at this time might—er—well,
prove embarrassing. You understand, don’t you?”
Magpie rolls a cigaret, and sort of grins under his mustache.
“How is the duke fixed?” he asks.
“You mean his financial standing? Really, you can’t figure things that
way, old fellow. His title, the title he can give Marion, can not be
summed up in dollars and cents. I dare say he’s comfortable.”
“Comfortable?” grins Magpie, “Maybe we can change that. Does my niece
know I’m here?”
“No, she does not. She and the duke are motoring today. I shall have to
do everything I can to block you in case you try to interfere in any
way. My wife and I are her recognized guardians, remember.”
“Pinky,” says I, “don’t rile him. Whispering is a holy terror when he’s
riled, and if you get too blasted tutty he’ll take your pocketbook away
from you, and you’ll have to go to work. Sabe?”
“Them is words of wisdom,” agrees Homely. “A dollar in the hand is worth
two dukes in the family, Van, old scout. Could you use a glass of milk
and sugar if I was to offer to treat the crowd?”
“Why—er—really I don’t know,” says he, bewildered like. “I believe I
must go now. I hope to see you all again. Pleased to have met you. Good
afternoon,” and he softly closed the door.
“Magpie,” says Homely, “you ain’t no gentleman. Always take off your hat
when a person like that talks to you. Ain’t you got no manners? You
embarrassed him extremely.”
“Manners!” snorts Magpie. “No, I ain’t, Homely. I ain’t got no judgment,
either, or I wouldn’t have picked that snow-shoe rabbit for a relative.
I wonder what Marion is like?”
* * * * *
We found out the next day. The three of us walks out to the Van Veen
residence. It sure looks like a lot of money surrounded by a brush
fence, and when Homely sees it he says to Magpie:
“You must have made a lot of money in Brazil. Nice place to live.”
“Yeah,” says Magpie, “nice but not homelike. Why, Homely, a lizard
wouldn’t live in a place like this, and a rattlesnake would bite himself
inside of a week. No sagebrush nor rocks, and I ain’t seen a man here
what ain’t pink in the face. It sure does ruin the human race living in
a place like this.”
We hammers on the front door, and a general opens the door for us. We
all bows to him, and Magpie says:
“Colonel, we’re glad to meet you. I’m Whispering White, and this is
Bedrock Benson and Homely Hobbs.”
We all shakes hands with him.
“How’s the army?” asks Homely.
“Beg pardon,” says he, with his nose in the air. “Who shall I announce?”
“Gosh,” snorts Magpie, “he’s going to make an announcement. Go ahead,
Officer.”
“Beg pardon,” says he, getting red as a beet. “Who shall I announce?”
“Who have you got?” grins Magpie. “We came up to see Marion White, but
if you got anything else we’ll look it over.”
“Ah!” says he. “Step into the drawing-room, and I will inform Miss
Marion of your presence.”
“Merry Christmas,” says Homely, and we all follers the officer into a
room what reminds me of molasses. Everything is dark and heavy, and your
boots don’t even squeak on the floor. Some folks seem to be afraid of a
little sunshine, so I goes over to let up a shade, when I hears a female
voice say: “Quite a surprise!” and I turns just in time to see Magpie
kiss her.
Magpie sure knows how to play a part, I can say that much for him, but
his judgment is all wrong.
“Sir!” she yelps. “How dare you! I am Mrs. Van Veen,” and Magpie got his
face slapped.