A NIGHT MARCH
Arkwright saw no one but his valet-masseur for several days; on the left
side of his throat the marks of Craig's fingers showed even above the
tallest of his extremely tall collars. From the newspapers he gathered
that Margaret had gone to New York on a shopping trip--had gone for a
stay of two or three weeks. When the adventure in the garden was more
than a week into the past, as he was coming home from a dinner toward
midnight he jumped from his electric brougham into Craig's arms.
"At last!" exclaimed Josh, leading the way up the Arkwright steps and
ringing the bell. Grant muttered a curse under his breath. When the man
had opened the door, "Come in," continued Josh loudly and cheerily,
leading the way into the house.
"You'd think it was his house, by gad!" muttered Grant.
"I've been walking up and down before the entrance for an hour. The
butler asked me in, but I hate walls and roof. The open for me--the
wide, wide open!"
"Not so loud," growled Arkwright. "The family's in bed. Wait till we get
to my part of the house."
When they were there, with doors closed and the lights on, Craig exhaled
his breath as noisily as a blown swimmer. "What a day! What a day!" he
half-shouted, dropping on the divan and thrusting his feet into the rich
and rather light upholstery of a near-by chair.
Grant eyed the feet gloomily. He was proud of his furniture and as
careful of it as any old maid.
"Go ahead, change your clothes," cried Josh. "I told your motorman not
to go away."
"What do you mean?" Arkwright demanded, his temper boiling at the rim of
the pot.
"I told him before you got out. You see, we're going to New York
to-night--or rather this morning. Train starts at one o'clock. I met old
Roebuck at the White House to-night--found he was going by special
train--asked him to take us."
"Not I," said Arkwright. "No New York for me. I'm busy to-morrow.
Besides, I don't want to go."
"Of course you don't," laughed Craig, and Arkwright now noted that he
was in the kind of dizzy spirits that most men can get only by drinking
a very great deal indeed. "Of course you don't. No more do I. But I've
got to go--and so have you."
"What for?"
"To help me get married."
Grant could only gape at him.
"Don't you know Margaret has gone to New York?"
"I saw it in the paper, but--"
"Now, don't go back a week to ancient history."
"I don't believe it," foamed Grant, so distracted that he sprang up and
paced the floor, making wild gestures with his arms and head.
Craig watched, seemed hugely amused. "You'll see, about noon to-morrow.
You've got to put in the morning shopping for me. I haven't got--You
know what sort of a wardrobe mine is. Wardrobe? Hand satchel!
Carpet-bag! Rag-bag! If I took off my shoes you'd see half the toes of
one foot and all the heel of the other. And only my necktie holds this
collar in place. Both buttonholes are gone. As for my underclothes--but
I'll spare you these."
"Yes, do," said Grant with a vicious sneer.
"Now, you've got to buy me a complete outfit." Craig drew a roll of
bills from his pocket, counted off several, threw them on the table.
"There's four hundred dollars, all I can afford to waste at present.
Make it go as far as you can. Get a few first-class things, the rest
decent and substantial, but not showy. I'll pay for the suits I've got
to get. They'll have to be ready-made--and very good ready-made ones a
man can buy nowadays. We'll go to the tailor's first thing--about seven
o'clock in the morning, which'll give him plenty of time for
alterations."
"I won't!" exploded Grant, stopping his restless pacing and slamming
himself on to a chair.
"Oh, yes, you will," asserted Craig, with absolute confidence. "You're
not going back on me."
"There's nothing in this--nothing! I've known Rita Severence nearly
twenty years, and I know she's done with you."
Craig sprang to his feet, went over and laid his heavy hand heavily upon
Arkwright's shoulder. "And," said he, "you know me. Did I ever say a
thing that didn't prove to be true, no matter how improbable it seemed
to you?"
Arkwright was silent.
"Grant," Craig went on, and his voice was gentle and moving, "I need
you. I must have you. You won't fail me, will you, old pal?"
"Oh, hell!--I'll go," said Grant in a much-softened growl. "But I know
it's a wild-goose chase. Still, you do need the clothes. You're a
perfect disgrace."
Craig took away his hand and burst into his noisy, boyish laughter, so
reminiscent of things rural and boorish, of the coarse, strong spirits
of the happy-go-lucky, irresponsibles that work as field hands and
wood-haulers. "By cracky, Grant, I just got sight of the remnants of
that dig I gave you. It was a beauty, wasn't it?"
Arkwright moved uneasily, fumbled at his collar, tried to smile
carelessly.
"I certainly am the luckiest devil," Craig went on. "Now, what a stroke
pushing you over and throttling you was!" And he again laughed loudly.
"I don't follow you," said Grant sourly.
"What a vanity box you are! You can't take a joke. Now, they're always
poking fun at me--pretty damn nasty! some of it--but don't I always look
cheerful?"
"Oh--YOU!" exclaimed Grant in disgust.
"And do you know why?" demanded Craig, giving him a rousing slap on the
knee. "When I find it hard to laugh I begin to think of the greatest
joke of all--the joke I'll have on these merry boys when the cards are
all played and I sweep the tables. I think of that, and, by gosh, I
fairly roar!"
"Do you talk that way to convince yourself?"
Craig's eyes were suddenly shrewd. "Yes," said he, "and to convince you,
and a lot of other weak-minded people who believe all they hear. You'll
find out some day that the world thinks with its ears and its mouth, my
boy. But, as I say, who but I could have tumbled into such luck as came
quite accidentally out of that little 'rough-house' of mine at your
expense?"
"Don't see it," said Grant.
"Why, can't you see that it puts you out of business with Margaret?
She's not the sort of woman to take to the fellow that shows he's the
weaker."
"Well, I'll be--damned!" gasped Arkwright. "You HAVE got your nerve! To
say such a thing to a man you've just asked a favor of."
"Not at all," cried Craig airily. "Facts are facts. Why deny them?"
Arkwright shrugged his shoulders. "Well, let it pass.... Whether it's
settled me with her or not, it somehow--curiously enough--settled her
with me. Do you know, Josh, I've had no use for her since. I can't
explain it."
"Vanity," said Craig. "You are vain, like all people who don't talk
about themselves. The whole human race is vain--individually and
collectively. Now, if a man talks about himself as I do, why, his vanity
froths away harmlessly. But you and your kind suffer from ingrowing
vanity. You think of nothing but yourselves--how you look--how you
feel--how you are impressing others--what you can get for
yourself--self--self--self, day and night. You don't like Margaret any
more because she saw you humiliated. Where would I be if I were like
that? Why, I'd be dead or hiding in the brush; for I've had nothing but
insults, humiliations, sneers, snubs, all my life. Crow's my steady
diet, old pal. And I fatten and flourish on it."
Grant was laughing, with a choke in his throat. "Josh," said he, "you're
either more or less than human."
"Both," said Craig. "Grant, we're wasting time. Walter!" That last in a
stentorian shout.
The valet appeared. "Yes, Mr. Craig."
"Pack your friend Grant, here, for two days in New York. He's going
to-night and--I guess you'd better come along."
Arkwright threw up his hands in a gesture of mock despair. "Do as he
says, Walter. He's the boss."
"Now you're talking sense," said Craig. "Some day you'll stand before
kings for this--or sit, as you please."
On their way out Josh fished from the darkness under the front stairs a
tattered and battered suitcase and handed it to Walter. "It's my little
all," he explained to Grant. "I've given up my rooms at the Wyandotte.
They stored an old trunkful or so for me, and I've sent my books to the
office."
"Look here, Josh," said Grant, when they were under way; "does Margaret
know you're coming?"
"Does Margaret know I'm coming?" repeated Joshua mockingly. "Does
Margaret know her own mind and me?... Before I forget it here's a list I
wrote out against a lamp-post while I was waiting for you to come home.
It's the things I must have, so far as I know. The frills and froth you
know about--I don't."