"Why--er--Miss Lowery," I began, secretly enraged at Tripp's awkward
opening, "I am at your service, of course, but--er--as I haven't been
apprized of the circumstances of the case, I--er--"
"Oh," said Miss Lowery, beaming for a moment, "it ain't as bad as
that--there ain't any circumstances. It's the first time I've ever
been in New York except once when I was five years old, and I had no
idea it was such a big town. And I met Mr.--Mr. Snip on the street
and asked him about a friend of mine, and he brought me here and asked
me to wait."
"I advise you, Miss Lowery," said Tripp, "to tell Mr. Chalmers all.
He's a friend of mine" (I was getting used to it by this time), "and
he'll give you the right tip."
"Why, certainly," said Miss Ada, chewing a gum-drop toward me. "There
ain't anything to tell except that--well, everything's fixed for me to
marry Hiram Dodd next Thursday evening. Hi has got two hundred acres
of land with a lot of shore-front, and one of the best truck-farms on
the Island. But this morning I had my horse saddled up--he's a white
horse named Dancer--and I rode over to the station. I told 'em at
home I was going to spend the day with Susie Adams. It was a story,
I guess, but I don't care. And I came to New York on the train, and
I met Mr.--Mr. Flip on the street and asked him if he knew where I
could find G--G--"
"Now, Miss Lowery," broke in Tripp, loudly, and with much bad taste,
I thought, as she hesitated with her word, "you like this young man,
Hiram Dodd, don't you? He's all right, and good to you, ain't he?"
"Of course I like him," said Miss Lowery emphatically. "Hi's all
right. And of course he's good to me. So is everybody."
I could have sworn it myself. Throughout Miss Ada Lowery's life all
men would be to good to her. They would strive, contrive, struggle,
and compete to hold umbrellas over her hat, check her trunk, pick up
her handkerchief, and buy for her soda at the fountain.
"But," went on Miss Lowery, "last night I got to thinking about
G--George, and I--"
Down went the bright gold head upon dimpled, clasped hands on the
table. Such a beautiful April storm! Unrestrainedly she sobbed. I
wished I could have comforted her. But I was not George. And I was
glad I was not Hiram--and yet I was sorry, too.
By-and-by the shower passed. She straightened up, brave and half-way
smiling. She would have made a splendid wife, for crying only made
her eyes more bright and tender. She took a gum-drop and began her
story.
"I guess I'm a terrible hayseed," she said between her little gulps
and sighs, "but I can't help it. G--George Brown and I were sweethearts
since he was eight and I was five. When he was nineteen--that was
four years ago--he left Greenburg and went to the city. He said he was
going to be a policeman or a railroad president or something. And then
he was coming back for me. But I never heard from him any more. And
I--I--liked him."
Another flow of tears seemed imminent, but Tripp hurled himself into
the crevasse and dammed it. Confound him, I could see his game. He
was trying to make a story of it for his sordid ends and profit.
"Go on, Mr. Chalmers," said he, "and tell the lady what's the proper
caper. That's what I told her--you'd hand it to her straight. Spiel
up."
I coughed, and tried to feel less wrathful toward Tripp. I saw my
duty. Cunningly I had been inveigled, but I was securely trapped.
Tripp's first dictum to me had been just and correct. The young lady
must be sent back to Greenburg that day. She must be argued with,
convinced, assured, instructed, ticketed, and returned without delay.
I hated Hiram and despised George; but duty must be done. _Noblesse
oblige_ and only five silver dollars are not strictly romantic
compatibles, but sometimes they can be made to jibe. It was mine to
be Sir Oracle, and then pay the freight. So I assumed an air that
mingled Solomon's with that of the general passenger agent of the
Long Island Railroad.
"Miss Lowery," said I, as impressively as I could, "life is rather a
queer proposition, after all." There was a familiar sound to these
words after I had spoken them, and I hoped Miss Lowery had never
heard Mr. Cohan's song. "Those whom we first love we seldom wed. Our
earlier romances, tinged with the magic radiance of youth, often fail
to materialize." The last three words sounded somewhat trite when
they struck the air. "But those fondly cherished dreams," I went
on, "may cast a pleasant afterglow on our future lives, however
impracticable and vague they may have been. But life is full of
realities as well as visions and dreams. One cannot live on memories.
May I ask, Miss Lowery, if you think you could pass a happy--that is,
a contented and harmonious life with Mr.--er--Dodd--if in other ways
than romantic recollections he seems to--er--fill the bill, as I might
say?"
"Oh, Hi's all right," answered Miss Lowery. "Yes, I could get along
with him fine. He's promised me an automobile and a motor-boat. But
somehow, when it got so close to the time I was to marry him, I
couldn't help wishing--well, just thinking about George. Something
must have happened to him or he'd have written. On the day he left,
he and me got a hammer and a chisel and cut a dime into two pieces. I
took one piece and he took the other, and we promised to be true to
each other and always keep the pieces till we saw each other again.
I've got mine at home now in a ring-box in the top drawer of my
dresser. I guess I was silly to come up here looking for him. I
never realized what a big place it is."
And then Tripp joined in with a little grating laugh that he had,
still trying to drag in a little story or drama to earn the miserable
dollar that he craved.
"Oh, the boys from the country forget a lot when they come to the city
and learn something. I guess George, maybe, is on the bum, or got
roped in by some other girl, or maybe gone to the dogs on account of
whiskey or the races. You listen to Mr. Chalmers and go back home,
and you'll be all right."
But now the time was come for action, for the hands of the clock
were moving close to noon. Frowning upon Tripp, I argued gently and
philosophically with Miss Lowery, delicately convincing her of the
importance of returning home at once. And I impressed upon her
the truth that it would not be absolutely necessary to her future
happiness that she mention to Hi the wonders or the fact of her visit
to the city that had swallowed up the unlucky George.
She said she had left her horse (unfortunate Rosinante) tied to a tree
near the railroad station. Tripp and I gave her instructions to mount
the patient steed as soon as she arrived and ride home as fast as
possible. There she was to recount the exciting adventure of a day
spent with Susie Adams. She could "fix" Susie--I was sure of that--
and all would be well.
And then, being susceptible to the barbed arrows of beauty, I warmed
to the adventure. The three of us hurried to the ferry, and there I
found the price of a ticket to Greenburg to be but a dollar and eighty
cents. I bought one, and a red, red rose with the twenty cents for
Miss Lowery. We saw her aboard her ferryboat, and stood watching her
wave her handkerchief at us until it was the tiniest white patch
imaginable. And then Tripp and I faced each other, brought back to
earth, left dry and desolate in the shade of the sombre verities of
life.
The spell wrought by beauty and romance was dwindling. I looked at
Tripp and almost sneered. He looked more careworn, contemptible, and
disreputable than ever. I fingered the two silver dollars remaining
in my pocket and looked at him with the half-closed eyelids of
contempt. He mustered up an imitation of resistance.
"Can't you get a story out of it?" he asked, huskily. "Some sort of
a story, even if you have to fake part of it?"
"Not a line," said I. "I can fancy the look on Grimes' face if I
should try to put over any slush like this. But we've helped the
little lady out, and that'll have to be our only reward."
"I'm sorry," said Tripp, almost inaudibly. "I'm sorry you're out your
money. Now, it seemed to me like a find of a big story, you know--
that is, a sort of thing that would write up pretty well."
"Let's try to forget it," said I, with a praiseworthy attempt at
gayety, "and take the next car 'cross town."
I steeled myself against his unexpressed but palpable desire. He
should not coax, cajole, or wring from me the dollar he craved. I had
had enough of that wild-goose chase.
Tripp feebly unbuttoned his coat of the faded pattern and glossy seams
to reach for something that had once been a handkerchief deep down in
some obscure and cavernous pocket. As he did so I caught the shine
of a cheap silver-plated watch-chain across his vest, and something
dangling from it caused me to stretch forth my hand and seize it
curiously. It was the half of a silver dime that had been cut in
halves with a chisel.
"What!" I said, looking at him keenly.
"Oh yes," he responded, dully. "George Brown, alias Tripp. What's
the use?"
Barring the W. C. T. U., I'd like to know if anybody disapproves of
my having produced promptly from my pocket Tripp's whiskey dollar and
unhesitatingly laying it in his hand.