Picking up the daily paper he tilted back comfortably in a chair, and
interested himself in the sporting news.
"Well, Checkers," I said, when at last I had finished, "How are you
this morning, my boy?"
"If I felt any better I could n't stand it," he answered, throwing down
the paper. "But you do n't look very fit. How did you come out with
the boys last night?"
"About even," I replied, deprecatorily.
He smiled in a most exasperating way.
[Illustration: MR. PRESTON]
"Now I'll tell you," he said growing suddenly confidential. "There 's
a 'hot thing' coming off to-day, and I want you to put a swell bet on
it. They've been laying dead with it all the meeting--pulled his head
off his last two outs--but to-day they 've got him in a good soft spot,
and they 're going to 'put it over the plate.'"
"Checkers," I said, "I want you to understand, once and for all, that I
am no gambler. I went to the races Derby Day, as I would go to any
other show, and now and then I play a little quarter limit game with my
friends. But even that I do n't approve of. I tell you I consider
gambling the most insidious of all the vices, and it's on just that
point that I want to talk to you.
"I want you to give up that kind of life, get a position in some good
house, and begin to make a man of yourself. I tell you you 're too
bright a boy to be throwing yourself away as you are. Suppose your
'good thing' wins to-day--suppose you do make some money on it--you
will lose it on something else to-morrow. You are simply living from
hand to mouth, growing older every day with nothing to show for the
time you have spent.
"Now, what I propose is simply this. I shall look about among all my
friends in the wholesale lines, and try to find you a position where
you can learn some business from the beginning. If you are industrious
and quick it will be but a comparatively short time when you 'll have a
chance to go on the road, or something of that sort. Now, what do you
say?"
I can't say that Checkers seemed wholly delighted. He looked anywhere
but into my eyes and finally said he "would like a job, but he did n't
believe I could get him one."
I replied that I was sure I could, as my uncle was a wholesale
dry-goods merchant, and I had several friends who were heads of
departments in other large stores of various kinds.
"Well, we 'll try it and see," he said resignedly, "but I 'll tell you
just about how it is. A guy goes into a wholesale house and he starts
at the bottom in some department. He gets up at the break of day, and
he works like the devil after a Christian. If he has good luck he do
n't get 'fired,' but he never gets a raise on earth, unless the mug
above him dies, or breaks down his health and has to quit.
"Why, I knew a joker who worked in a certain big store in this town for
fifteen years. He lived somewhere way out in the suburbs, and he told
me he had to get down so early, that when he was coming home at night
he used to meet himself starting down in the morning. Well, one day
some one gave him a pass to the Harlem track--one Saturday afternoon.
He went to the races for the first time in his life. I got ahold of
him and made him win three hundred dollars with a five-dollar bill, and
you ought to have heard the talk he put up. 'Has this game been going
on all this time,' he says, 'with me doing the Rip Van Winkle act?
Why, I 'd be worth all kinds of money now, if I 'd had any sense.' And
Monday he went down and threw up his job, and started in to play the
ponies. Of course he went broke, but not long ago he struck a streak,
and made a killin'. He started in to making a book, and now he's got a
stable with five good sprinters, and a twenty thousand dollar
bank-roll. If he had stuck to his job in that store, he 'd have
probably had nervous prostration by this time."
"But the case you cite, Checkers, is one in a thousand," I said,
smiling broadly in spite of myself. "While that one man may have made
a success of a very questionable sort through unusual luck, or unusual
shrewdness, there have numberless others gone to ruin--utter,
irretrievable ruin, by giving way to their passion for gambling.
"If you object to a wholesale house, I may perhaps find something else
for you to do. But it seems to me to be simply a shame that a boy of
your ability and brains should be content to be nothing but a tout, and
herd with the riff-raff and scum of creation. Now, once and for all,
if you desire to better yourself, I shall be glad to help you; but
otherwise I must simply refuse to have you about me any longer. Think
it over and come in to-morrow, and tell me your decision. Now, you
must excuse me as I have an engagement with this gentleman," and I
turned to greet a friend whose timely arrival saved me from the "touch"
which I could see Checkers was nerving himself to make.
I found however that to secure an immediate position for my protege was
a much more difficult matter than I had at first imagined. I spoke to
a dozen different people. Most of them assured me that they already
had more help than they had need of. Others needed no one now, but
thought they might in a month or two. My uncle said that "for my sake
he would try to make a place for my friend." But when I told him all
the facts, he shook his head and looked very dubious.
Meanwhile at frequent intervals, Checkers would drop into my office,
and chat of the happenings of other days, or tell me of his present
doings. It seemed to me, as I often told him, that if he would only
exercise one-half the thought and ingenuity in the pursuit of something
legitimate that he used in "separating the angels he got next to from
their gold," he would long since have achieved a fortune.
He delighted in telling of the successful working of some new scheme he
had figured out for the trapping of the unwary. And at each recital I
used to marvel at the boundless credulity of the average human.
But whenever I could I would start him off upon some incident in his
former life. In the story of his boyish courtship, the trials he
underwent in securing his wife, and his subsequent sorrows and
misfortunes, there was an exquisite blending of humor and pathos which
appealed to me immeasurably. It was seldom, however, that he would
talk of those days--the sadness of it all was still too near to him.
When he was in luck he never referred to them--he seemed to live in the
present alone. But when, as was frequently the case, his luck deserted
him and things went wrong, he would sometimes get a fit of the blues,
and, falling into a reminiscent mood, would find a sort of morbid
comfort in living it all over again. He would skip abruptly from scene
to scene, one incident or person suggesting another, and in his own
peculiar way he would describe a situation or picture a character with
a vividness worthy of a Dickens. For instance, when, in speaking of
his father-in-law, he said that "the family used to have to treat him
with cocaine before he could stand it to give up a nickel," I thought
it a very forceful way of expressing the old man's carefulness.
As the days went by and nothing came of my efforts to get a position
for Checkers, I had perforce to drop the matter, and Checkers never
again referred to it.
Gradually his visits became less frequent, as I ceased to continue a
profitable subject; for his invention, however fertile, could not
furnish new excuses forever. But I often found myself gathering up the
threads of his story as he had told it, weaving into the growing fabric
some strands of my own imaginings, until I seemed to find in it an odd
and pathetic little romance.
* * * * *
The town of Clarksville, Ark., was not attractive at any time, but to
Checkers, who had arrived there with Arthur Kendall at three o'clock
that summer's morning en route from Hot Springs, the aspect of the
place seemed particularly dismal.
The train which had brought them from Little Rock steamed away toward
the Territory, and left them standing in darkness on the station
platform.
A 'bus from the hotel, with two forlorn old horses driven by a sleepy,
shock-headed boy, stood waiting on the other side. They entered it and
went creaking off.
As Arthur had previously explained to Checkers, his father's home was
some miles from town, and accordingly he thought it better for them to
sleep at the hotel until morning, have their breakfast, and then drive
out.
As they lumbered along the dusty streets in the silence of the early
morning, Checkers peered curiously out, and found his original
impressions gaining strength.
The stars were shining clear and luminous, and in the East there was
just the faintest glow which told of the coming sunrise. A vaporish
mist hung low on the ground, and in the dim uncertain light all objects
seemed to take to themselves a weird and most uncanny look. At
frequent intervals a "razor-back," already up and browsing about, would
trot tardily out of the horses' way, grunting his dissatisfaction.
Shortly they turned into what seemed to be the street of the town. It
was wider and dustier than any of the others, and on it stood a large
brick structure, which Checkers judged to be the court house. It
formed what is commonly known as "a square," for on opposite sides of
the street as they passed Checkers noticed that most of the buildings
were stores, with their low-burning lamps keeping watch through the
night.
A few moments more and the 'bus drove up, and stopped before a low
brick building.
Kendall, who had fallen asleep in his corner, awoke, and with a "here
we are," jumped out and ushered Checkers into an ill-smelling room,
where a heavy-eyed youth did the honors as clerk, and then lowering
himself to the office of bell-boy, took their luggage and showed them
the way to their room.
Arriving, they stood in the darkness, until he succeeded in lighting,
with a sulphur match, a very much smoked little kerosene lamp, after
which he brought them a pitcher of water, and departed without the
formality of a "good night."
Immediately Arthur began to undress. This was all an old, old story to
him. But Checkers fell to looking about him. He found that the door
had no lock upon it, and that the windows opened wide upon a low
veranda; that they boasted no screens, nor could he find that the beds
had any mosquito-bars.
Kendall's face expressed a sleepy surprise. "Come on, old man; get
undressed," he said, "it's nearly 4 o'clock. We have n't any too much
time to sleep."
Checkers' only reply was to pull off his coat, and to sit down and
begin to unfasten his shoes. A couple of June-bugs, attracted by the
light, flew in at the window, and bumping around in their noisy,
disagreeable way, gave Checkers an uncomfortable, crawly feeling.
The truth was, Checkers was wholly metropolitan, and this was a new
experience. The darkness and silence disheartened and cowed him. He
missed the confusion and glare of the city.
Kendall had fallen fast asleep, and was breathing loudly in half a
minute. But Checkers lay wide-eyed and wondering, listening to the
locusts and katydids outdoing themselves in the trees outside.
And then he fell to speculating about his chances for the future,
wondering what the probable outcome of this new venture of his was to
be. Had n't he been foolish in coming to such a God-forsaken little
place? He might have borrowed some money from Kendall, and stayed at
the Springs and recouped.
And now that, after several days of solicitous care and constant
watching, he had succeeded in pulling Kendall through without his
giving way to the terrible after-craving he had for liquor, would the
promises made him be fulfilled, or had he been too credulous?
Kendall had told him that he and his father were wealthy. That besides
their large fruit farm, they were interested in a general store and
commission business. He had promised Checkers that if he would but
consent to see him to his home in Clarksville, he should be given a
good position in the store, and that if after they arrived there he
found that he did not care to remain, he should have transportation to
any place in the country he cared to go. And to Checkers, disheartened
and penniless, out of conceit with gambling, and satiated with the
excitement and uncertainty of the life he had been leading, the
opportunity seemed a very godsend. Thoughts of the country, green and
cool, appealed to him with a grateful sense of restfulness and quiet;
and the idea of going to work again at something legitimate brought
with it the feeling of conscious approval, which always accompanies
virtuous resolves.
But since Kendall had become himself again, he seemed to have grown
less dependent and thankful. And again the glimpse that Checkers had
caught of the place had greatly dampened his ardor.
An hour dragged slowly by, and still he lay restlessly tossing about.
The roosters began to crow and answer each other from point to point in
the distance; and a hound near by with a mournful howl bayed dismally
at intervals.
'Twas the strangeness of it all that kept him wakeful, but at last the
tension was relieved by a knocking at the door of the room beyond which
aroused a couple of drummers, who were called to catch an early train.
He heard them through the thin partition, dressing and grumbling at
their luck. Here at least was something natural, and gradually the
humorous side of the situation appealed to him. He smiled, as with a
long-drawn sigh he murmured, "I think I 'll get fat here, nit," and
when he awoke it was broad daylight, and Kendall was standing over him,
dressed.
"Hello, old man, awake at last," laughed Kendall. "Well, you better
get up and dress, or we 're apt to miss our breakfast. How did you
sleep? All right, I hope; you look as fresh as a mountain daisy."
Checkers crawled slowly out of bed. "Well, then my looks are a
horrible bluff," he said, with the slight, sardonic smile which was
usual to him at nearly all times. "I feel like the last end of a
misspent life," and he fished a sock out from under the bed. "Do you
know," he continued, as he held his shirt aloft, preparatory to putting
it on, "it's wonderful how a fellow's early training comes back to him
later in life. I recollect my mother used to read a psalm about not
being 'afraid of the terror by night, nor the pestilence that walketh
in darkness.' Now, somehow, it never struck me before, but I 'll bet
the party that wrote the verse never slept in an Arkansas hotel bed.
If he did, he had on his tin pajamas, or else he could beat 'the
pestilence' walking. Say, where on earth is my other sock? I'll
gamble that one of them pinchin'-bugs pinched it?" and Checkers kept up
a running fire of quaint remarks while Kendall laughed.
Their breakfast was a culinary horror.
"Have you got any capsules?" asked Checkers of the waitress.
"Capsules!"
"Yes, I'll have to have some, if I take this butter internally." A
kick under the table from Arthur put an end to further persiflage.
A two-seated spring wagon, known locally as a "hack," with two sturdy
horses and a driver stood waiting for them. Arthur had sent out and
ordered it before breakfast, and his telescope bag and Checkers' trunk
he had caused to be firmly strapped into the end.
The day was a typically beautiful one. The clear and bracing morning
air had in it just enough of a chill to make the sunshine grateful to
them, as they drove along the winding road, toward the mountainous
country lying beyond them.
Checkers' blues had disappeared with the vapors of the night before,
and he felt the exultation of a new and pleasant experience. Arthur
was in an easy humor, and described at considerable length to Checkers
his family and their circumstances.
Some ten years back his father had moved from Massachusetts to that
locality at the advice of his doctor. He had bronchial trouble, and he
found the thin, clear air of the Ozarks beneficial. Mrs. Kendall was
long since dead, and Arthur had been an only child. Besides these two
there were in the household Aunt Deb, who was a sister of Mr.
Kendall's, and "Cynthy," the cook, and maid of all work. There was
also a good-natured creature named Tobe, half-witted and harmless,
attached to the family, who did odd jobs for his board and keep, and
had constituted himself a fixture.
At their store they sold everything from plows to perfumery. The
commission business was simply an adjunct. They bought for cash from
the farmers, and shipped the goods to Little Rock, and sometimes to St.
Louis. Old Mr. Bradley, who had owned the store when they first came
there, was running it now. They had bought him out, but had given him
an interest and salary as manager.
The business was the pride of the old man's life, and he watched it as
a mother watches her babe.
Arthur spent most of his time at the store, selling goods and talking
to the trade; but the elder Kendall seldom went there. He passed the
summer in his garden and among his fruit trees. In the winter he
generally traveled farther South.
Checkers gathered by indirection that he was wealthy outside of his
business. Probably an eccentric individual, who simply liked the place
and stayed there.
"I should think," said Checkers, as Arthur paused in his recital, "that
a fellow would fall into a trance in about a week, in a place like
this. What on earth do you do with yourself."
"Well," said Arthur, "I haven't lived here much. I've been East to
school, and knocked around in a lot of different places, and I like it
here as a kind of a change. There are a couple of very nice girls in
the town that I call on once in a while. I read a good deal in the
evenings, and, in season, the shooting is fine. I 'll admit it gets
rather stupid at times, but it's the best place in the world for me.
You know they have 'local option' here, and you can 't get a drink for
love or money. As long as I stay here, of course, I 'm all right; but
as sure as I get away some place, I make a fool of myself, and get
full, as I did when you rescued me at the Springs. Drinking is a
disease with me. I can't drink as most fellows do. If I touch a drop
it starts me off, and it's good-bye for a week or two. Each time I
come home as the prodigal did, and my father comes out and 'falls on my
neck.' He 's been devilish kind, the governor has, and I 've cost him
a lot of money and trouble."
"Well, that's what a father has to expect," remarked Checkers. "If
ever I have a son, I 'll begin storing up veal on the day that he's
born--I'll need it if he takes after 'papa.'"
Arthur laughed and laid his hand caressingly upon Checker's shoulder.
"Old man," he said, "I like you and I want you to stay here and be my
chum. We 'll have some bully times together, and you 'll like it when
you get used to the place. You 've treated me mighty white all
through, and I want to tell you that I appreciate it."
Checkers grew red. He felt embarrassed, and hesitated for a reply.
Arthur knew his story, or such of it as Checkers had seen fit to relate
to him. But Checkers had never intimated that he was hopelessly
dependent. He had spoken vaguely of relatives; of drawing a draft on
Uncle Giles; of telegraphing to Chicago for money; it lent him
respectability.
It must be remembered that at this time Checkers had not been through
the most trying part of the experiences of which he had spoken while
dining with me at Kinsley's that night. And while by no means Arthur's
equal in the social scale, he was still very far from being the
hardened tout, whom two years later, I met at the race-track, Derby Day.
Nevertheless, he himself felt a difference intuitively, and though he
had exercised to the full his talent for making himself companionable,
it had proved a very difficult task to fully break through Arthur's
reserve. This sudden show of sentiment, therefore, upon Arthur's part,
affected and pleased him; and reaching up to the hand on his shoulder,
he grasped it warmly. "I 'll go you," he said. And the two friends
smiled into each other's eyes.
V
A very few days sufficed to make Checkers feel thoroughly at home in
his new surroundings. The Kendall house was a roomy, frame structure
set upon one of the highest of the Ozark Mountains, to which the road
from Clarksville was a gradual, and almost constant ascent. From his
window Checkers could see for miles down into the valley, across the
dense growth of mountain-pines, the many shaded green and yellow
squares of fields and farm lands beyond, and away in the distance the
Arkansas River glistening in the sun like a silver snake.
Immediately surrounding the house were the orchards, their trees almost
breaking with the wealth of their red and yellow fruit.
Checkers had found ready favor with Mr. Kendall by evincing an
enthusiastic interest, confessing at the same time an ignorance which
allowed the old gentleman full opportunity for enlarging upon his
favorite hobbies. Aunt Deb's smiles were as quickly won by a deft word
in praise of the table.
Just how Arthur had explained the presence of his friend to the
household, Checkers did not know. But it was evident, as he remarked
to himself, that "the explanation went," and he bothered himself about
it no further.
At the store it was found that Checkers' talents were those of a
salesman par excellence.
He quickly learned the run of the goods, and his chief delight, to use
his own words, was "to jolly the jays into buying something they
absolutely had no need of."
Arthur and Mr. Bradley would sometimes stand almost convulsed with
silent laughter, listening to the dialogue between Checkers and some
country customer.
He was quick at reading character, and his intuitions were remarkably
keen. He was able, therefore, to ingratiate himself with nearly every
class of purchaser, by starting a genial conversation upon the topic he
deemed most fit, letting it take its course through all the vagaries of
a country mind, until at last it veered around to the subject of a
possible purchase. Then, in the most disinterested way, and as though
rather sorry to end the talk, he would go behind the counter and
pleasantly show forth a number of things that had n't been asked for,
as though it was only as a special favor that he had gone to the
trouble of getting the articles down. Such consideration, backed by a
judicious talk, seldom failed of the most substantial results; and
Checkers' fame soon went abroad as "a nice, young feller and a smart
'un, too."
It was during his first few days at the store that he acquired the
soubriquet of "Checkers." It was a piece of rude, bucolic wit, but the
name stuck to him, as such names will, and followed him through his
many vicissitudes.
Time was at a discount in Clarksville, Everyone had time to spend, but
few had money for such a purpose. And generally at the Kendall store,
some six or eight of the local talent might be found lounging
comfortably in the chairs outside, chaffing one another, chewing
tobacco, and waiting for something new to turn up.
This was particularly the case on Saturdays, when the farmers came to
town with their apples, vegetables and eggs for barter, made their
necessary purchases, and consumed the balance of the day in standing
around, talking crops and politics.
Although there were no saloons in the place, the greater part of the
assemblage always delayed their shopping until the last possible
moment, which naturally made a considerable rush at the various stores
as evening approached.
It was Checkers' first Saturday there, and while endeavoring to be as
helpful as possible, he was nevertheless rather awkward, as a result of
his unaccustomedness.
This did not fail to be observed by the natives, to whom he was an
object of much curiosity, and to whom his presence among the Kendalls
was a matter of wide and varied conjecture. The younger element
especially showed an undisguised interest in all that he did,
whispering and laughing among themselves in a way which, to Checkers,
was most exasperating.
There is something about a city-bred youth--his manner, his clothes,
his well-groomed look, his unconscious air of superiority--which is
antagonistic to country prejudice. Such prejudice is not hard to
remove, and generally disappears upon short acquaintance. But the
initiation is very trying, and Checkers felt the ordeal keenly.
"Say, Arthur," he said, as Kendall passed, "if some of those guys do
n't chase themselves, and quit whisperin' around, and givin' me the
rah-rah, there 's going to be a fight or a foot race, and your Uncle
Dudley won't be in front."
"Why, they're all right," said Arthur, soothingly. "They're interested
in you, because you 're a stranger. But they do n't mean the slightest
harm. You know 'a cat may look at a king.'"
"Yes, I know 'a cat may look at a king,' but she 'd better not see any
flies on the king, if she wants to keep her health and strength," and
Checkers continued arranging a show-case.
In order to save his clothes while working, Checkers had brought to the
store an old suit of a loud, checked pattern, and peculiar cut, which,
nevertheless, was very becoming.
Towards evening the crowd began to increase, and Mr. Bradley, Arthur,
two assistants and Checkers were all as busy as it was possible to be.
Those who were being waited on took none the less time in making their
purchases, because there were others awaiting their turn. As a
consequence, there was chafing and grumbling among the procrastinators,
who were now in a hurry.
Uncle Jerry Halter, from the back woods--a character; shrewd, crabbed
and as close as the next minute--was foremost among these, and at last
he discovered our friend, Mr. Campbell, checked suit and all, returning
from having washed his hands, after a not very successful attempt at
filling a large brown jug with molasses.
The old man crowded through to the counter, leaning over it
expectantly, but Checkers passed him by unheeded, making his way toward
a pretty girl.
"Hey there!" exclaimed Uncle Jerry indignantly--his voice was loud and
very nasal. "Hey! 'Checkers,' or whatever your name is--I'm in a
hurry, and I want to go."
Instantly there was a general laugh, and Checkers stopped and turned
around.
"Well, go if you want to--you're not tied down," he retorted, and the
laugh was on Uncle Jerry.
The old man colored to the roots of his hair. "You 're very fresh,
young feller," he snarled.
"Yes; warranted to keep in any climate," said Checkers, smiling
good-naturedly at him.
Arthur happened along just then, and soothed and waited upon Uncle
Jerry, getting him peaceably out of the store.
In the morning at breakfast he related the incident to Mr. Kendall, who
he knew would appreciate it.
"There is only one man about here meaner than old Jerry Halter," said
Mr. Kendall, addressing Checkers, "and that is the father of Arthur's
little friend, Miss Barlow. I once heard a friend of mine say of him
that 'he wouldn't smile unless it was at another man's expense,' and I
quite believe it. Arthur could tell you no end of humorous things
about him, if he only would. But I suppose he does n't want to relate
what may some day be family secrets. How is that, Arthur?"
Arthur looked annoyed, but did not reply to this bit of parental humor.
"As soon as Pert and Sadie come home you must take Mr. Campbell to call
on them, Arthur," said Aunt Deb. "They are two lovely girls," she
continued, turning to Checkers. "They 've been away to school; to a
seminary up in Illinois. School's out now, of course, but they 're
visiting somewhere--in St. Louis, I believe. They 're expected home
this week, though; so you 'll have the pleasure of meeting them soon."
"Sisters?" asked Checkers.
"No; not sisters, but cousins, and almost inseparable. Sadie is n't as
pretty as Pert, but she 's just as sweet as sweet can be, and a perfect
treasure about a house. Are you fond of young ladies, Mr. Campbell?"
Checkers hardly knew what to say. "I 'm a great admirer of girls in
general," he replied, after a moment's hesitation, "and they 've always
struck me as being a mighty nice thing to kind of have around. But I
've had very little experience with them--that is, at least, in the
last two years."
The truth was, that the friends with whom Checkers had gone to live in
Chicago, after his mother's death, had been people of true worth and
refinement. They were poor--a widowed mother and two daughters--and
the liberal sum which Checkers insisted upon paying them for his
monthly maintenance was to them a matter of grateful benefit. But
they, in return, had exercised a restraining influence over him; had
taught him to be courteous and gentlemanly, deferential to his elders,
and respectful toward women, or, at least to maintain such an outward
semblance, which answered all general purposes.
He had conceived a boyish adoration for the elder daughter, four years
his senior, which had aided her materially in her influence over him
for good. And it was only as he began to realize the utter
hopelessness of his passion, and at the same time found himself being
supplanted by the bearded man who some months after married her and
took her away, that he grew dissatisfied with working and found the
excitement that he craved in racing and kindred gambling devices.
For several years he had lived this life, gradually growing hard and
careless. But now that he found himself once more an inmate of a
respectable family circle, he resumed his gentleness of manner, as it
had been a half-forgotten role.
"I had been keeping the girls as a little surprise for him, Aunt Deb,"
said Arthur rather reproachfully. "To meet a girl who has been
described to you is like listening to a joke which is told point first."
"I warrant he 'll find plenty to be interested in after he meets them,
for all we may tell him," replied Aunt Deb.
"Yes," said Mr. Kendall, "there is something about each girl one meets
a little different from any other. At least it was so when I was a
boy. I never found any two quite alike."
"I never found one alike any two times," said Arthur, very feelingly;
"but their uncertainty, I suppose, is their charm. Come, let's go out
and loaf under the trees."
"Thank God, Sunday comes once a week," said Checkers. "I could stand
two a week without straining myself."
"The girls are to be home Friday," said Arthur. "Friday night we 'll
go down and call, if you'd like to."
"Tickled to death," said Checkers.
"Sadie will probably stay with Pert a while, as her father, Judge
Martin, has gone to Texas, and won't be back for a couple of weeks.
Sadie's mother is dead, you know, and she and the old man are all
alone. By the way, the Judge is rich, and Sadie is rich in her own
right, too."
"That settles it, Sadie dear; you 're mine. A fortune-teller told me I
'd marry a rich girl."
"Better see her before you marry her, had n't you?" suggested Arthur.
"Why? She has n't got pen-paralysis, has she?"
"Pen-paralysis! No; what on earth is that?"
"Well, as long as she can sign a check, I guess we can manage to worry
along. She may have faults; she probably has; but any girl who marries
me won't be getting any the best of it. There' s a heap of consolation
in that idea to a man about to commit matrimony."
"There are very few men I know of," said Arthur, "but what could 'lay
to their soul that flattering unction.'"
"When you 're swapping 'sights unseen,'" said Checkers, "you do n't
want too good a knife, or a horse yourself, or you 'll get the hooks on
the trade."
"With all respect to you, my boy, you'd be far from 'getting the
hooks,' as you call it, with Sadie Martin for a wife."
"Or you with Miss Barlow, I suppose."
Arthur's only response was a long drawn sigh, and he gazed into
distance vacantly.
"Where did they get the name of 'Pert' for Miss Barlow, Arthur?" asked
Checkers, suddenly.
"It's an abbreviation of a biblical name," said Arthur. "In a verse of
one of Paul's Epistles to the Romans, he says, 'Salute also the beloved
Persis.' When Pert was a child they gave her the nick-name, and it's
stuck to her ever since."
Friday evening came at last, and Arthur and Checkers at an early hour
drove down the mountain to call upon the young ladies.
The Barlows lived much nearer Clarksville than did the Kendalls, though
upon a different road, and the young men had a long and round-about
drive ere they reached their destination. As they entered the driveway
two large dogs came bounding toward them, growling fiercely.
"Look out thar, boys, ye do n't git dog-bit!" shouted a voice. "Here
Lion, here Tige; commir, ye varmints! What d 'ye mean? All right now;
I 've got a-hold of 'em. That you, Arthur; how de do?"
"How do you do, Mr. Barlow?" responded Arthur.
"Hitch yer hosses ter that tree thar. I 'll send Joe out ter tend to
'em. Ye 'll find the girls round the side in a hammock. Here 's Pert
a-comin' now."
"Good evening, Arthur, I 'm glad to see you," said a pleasant voice,
and out of the shadow into the light of the yellow moon, which was just
showing over the tops of the trees, the figure of a girl in white
appeared, moving quickly and gracefully toward them.
Arthur stepped forward, and taking both of her hands in his, pressed
them silently for a moment. "Pert," he said, "I want you to meet my
friend, Mr. Campbell. Come here, old man. Miss Barlow, Mr. Campbell."
"I am very glad to meet you, Miss Barlow," said Checkers, with a
graceful inclination.
"Where's Sadie, Pert? Oh, here she comes," said Arthur. "That you,
Sadie? How are you?"
"Pretty well, thank you. How's yourself?"
"Sadie, let me introduce you to a friend of mine. Miss Martin, Mr.
Campbell."
Miss Martin straightway offered her hand, and Checkers shook it
cordially.
"Let's go and sit where we can see the moon--it's perfectly beautiful
to-night," said Pert. "Arthur, get two chairs from the porch, and
bring them over by the hammock."
Arthur went to fulfill his mission while Checkers walked between the
young ladies.
Suddenly he skipped nimbly forward. "Excuse me while I climb a tree,"
he exclaimed, with a comical intonation. "There comes Lion and Tige,
and I 'm afraid it's another horrible case of 'They're After Me.'"
"Oh, they won't touch you while you 're with us," laughed Sadie. "Here
Lion, here Tige, good dogs."
"Well then, I think I 'd better establish my popularity with them both
right now," said Checkers; and with an air of confidence he kindly
patted and rubbed their heads in a way that dogs love, and made them
his friends.
Meanwhile Arthur arrived with the chairs. Sadie seated herself in one
of them, and motioning Checkers to place the other beside her, left the
hammock to Pert and Arthur.
"Did you have a good time in St. Louis, girls?" asked Arthur.
"Oh lovely!" they both exclaimed.
"We hated dreadfully to come home," continued Sadie, "but we simply had
to. Our clothes were in tatters. All the men were so sweet to us.
They kept something going on every minute."
Then followed an enthusiastic account of their good time, which was
tiresome to Checkers, and torture to Kendall.
"Pert, get your banjo," said Arthur, suddenly. "It seems like years
since I 've heard you play."
"It has n't but one string on it, Arthur," laughed Pert, "but I 'll fix
it up to-morrow, sure."
"I think it would sound very smooth out here in the moonlight, Miss
Barlow," suggested Checkers. "If you have some new strings I 'd be
glad to fix it up for you. I used to play a bit myself."
Sadie jumped up. "Come, let's go and get it," she said; and she and
Checkers went into the house.
She ushered Checkers into a room where Mr. Barlow, in shirt sleeves and
stocking feet, sat dozing in a rocking chair, while his wife, a
sweet-faced, grey-haired woman, worked button-holes in his new gingham
shirts.
Checkers felt drawn towards Mrs. Barlow. She reminded him strangely of
his mother. She had a smile like a benediction; but in her weary eyes
he could read a tragedy.
The banjo was one of Arthur's many gifts to Pert in days gone by, and
Checkers to his great relief found it a very excellent instrument.
Checkers was not a conversationalist, where conversation had to be
made; but he was a very good amateur banjoist, and he sang an excellent
comic song; and he was glad of the opportunity offered to show himself
in perhaps his best role.
While, with the banjo on his knee, he deftly adjusted the strings, Miss
Martin sat beside him, an interested spectator, and talked to him in an
undertone.
"I thought we had better come in here and give Arthur a little chance,"
she said--"poor fellow." This with a long drawn sigh, which seemed to
demand an explanation.
Checkers looked up, inquiringly. This was his first legitimate
opportunity of taking a comprehensive look at her. The casual glance
had proclaimed her plain, but now in the bright light of a hanging-lamp
she seemed to him hopelessly unattractive. He felt chagrined and
disappointed. He was angry with Arthur for not having prepared him for
such a cruel disillusion. For somehow since his jesting words of the
previous Sabbath morning, he had allowed his fancy to run the gamut of
many glittering possibilities.
He had started forth that evening, feeling a pleasurable excitement in
the vague presentiment that he was going to meet his destiny. But now
it simply "would n't do." He decided quickly and became resigned.
"It was n't that she was really so ugly," he afterwards explained to
me, "but there was n't anything about her that you could tie to, and
sort of forget the rest"--except her "stuff," and he wasn't sure but
that was one of Arthur's "pipe-dreams." She had no style, no face, no
figure. Nothing at all for a little starter. She was just a girl,
that was all--just a girl. A fact which put her beyond the pale.
"Why do you say 'poor fellow?'" said Checkers, after several moments
silence. "It seems to me he's mighty lucky to have such a tidy little
friend."
"Yes, but I fear she is only a friend, and that's why I 'm so sorry for
him. I like Arthur; I think he is simply a dear. He has always been
perfectly lovely to me. But Pert--well, Pert is very peculiar, and
Arthur, you know, is awfully fast."
Checkers put on an incredulous look. "Arthur fast!" he exclaimed with
a laugh. "Why, if he was in a city, I 'd expect him to get run over by
a hearse inside of a week."
"Oh, you men always stand up for each other; but I know all about it.
You can't fool me."
Mrs. Barlow looked up from her sewing. "You and Arthur are very old
friends, I suppose," she said, interrogatively.
This was just the question that Checkers had feared. "We went to
school at about the same time," he replied, and immediately struck up
an air, which, for the time, precluded further questioning. "At least,
I suppose we did," he thought to himself, "as we are about the same
age."
Meanwhile Pert and Arthur sat in the hammock outside in the radiant
moonlight. It seemed to Arthur Pert had never looked so beautiful
before. Her large, dark eyes were lustrous; and a silvery halo played
about her soft, brown hair, while the pale light gave the clear skin of
her oval face the pallor of marble, save for her lips, which were the
redder by contrast.
"Such a nice little fellow!" she had exclaimed, as Sadie and Checkers
went into the house. "Who is he, Arthur? Where did he come from?"
Arthur hesitated awkwardly. It had been his intention to confess to
Pert all the circumstances of his last misadventure; but her few words
in praise of Checkers now suddenly emphasized in his mind the thought
that everything he had to tell was as clearly discreditable to himself
as it was favorable to Checkers, and he had n't the generosity of
nature to put the matter upon that footing.
Still, when upon several former occasions, he had confessed to Pert his
weaknesses and sins, there had been a kindness in her ready sympathy,
her gentle chiding and disapproval, which seemed to bring her nearer to
him than she ever was during good behavior. He had found a certain
desperate pleasure at times in telling her of his misdoings. It roused
her, at least temporarily, out of her usual placid indifference toward
him--an attitude to which he sometimes felt that her hatred would have
been preferable.
As a school-girl of sixteen, with romantic tendencies, Pert had entered
upon the task of reforming Arthur, with a childish belief that the love
he professed for her, and which she, in a measure, returned, might be
made a means to an earnest and successful endeavor upon his part to
become worthy of her. But lapse after lapse had shaken this faith, and
three years of experience found her with simply a sisterly pity for
this weak young man, whose devotion was so abject that he ceased to
interest her, and whose spasmodic vices were not of the kind which make
some men so darkly fascinating.
And so Arthur hesitated, debating rapidly in his mind what to say, what
to leave unsaid. "Well, it's a rather peculiar story, Pert, although
it all happened naturally enough," he answered, after a little time.
"I went up to Little Rock a few weeks ago to see a party on business.
I found when I got there that he had gone to Hot Springs, and so I
followed him over there. I wound up the business in a couple of days,
but, as long as I was there, I thought I 'd stay a week or so and take
a few baths.
"Well, one day in the cooling-room I struck up a conversation with the
man lying next to me, and I 'll pledge you my word I never laughed so
much in all my life as I did that morning at our little friend here,
who told me a lot of his hard-luck stories.
"We dressed, and went and had lunch together, and he told me that he
was dead, flat broke. He had been 'bucking the tiger,' and was waiting
to hear from his uncle, to whom he had written for money. I met him
again a few days later, and he told me he had n't heard a word as yet;
that his trunk was in hock at the hotel, and altogether he was in the
deuce of a fix. But he seemed so cheerful about it all that I could
n't help taking a liking to him, and I proposed that he come to
Clarksville with me, and take a job in the store, till he heard from
his uncle, or had saved enough money to get straightened out again. He
jumped at the chance, and I brought him along. He 's a first-class
salesman, and jolly good company; but I 'm afraid he won 't stay with
me much longer; he's getting tired of the place already. I shall be
dreadfully lonesome when he 's gone.
"But heavens, Pert; how lonesome I 've been without you, away at your
school all these months. It seems so good to see you here that I can
scarcely believe my eyes."
"I 'm glad to be back on some accounts, although it grows horribly
stupid here."
"Stupid, Pert! It wouldn't seem stupid to me on a desert island, if
you were there."
"I should n't care to try it."
"Pert, dear," Arthur's voice grew tender, "I want to say a few words to
you seriously, and I beg of you to listen seriously. We are children
no longer, little girl. You have finished with school, and I have
practically assumed control of father's business. I have no new story
to tell you, but you know that I love you and long for you now as I
have loved and longed for you for years.
"You have been my good angel, Pert. It has been my love for you and
your influence over me alone that has kept me steadfast during hours of
terrible temptation. You know I 'm not naturally vicious, Pert; I must
have inherited this appetite I have had to fight so hard against. But
I am overcoming it--I 'll conquer it, Pert; and with you to be with me
to love me and help me, I 'll make a good man. I 'll make a place and
a name in the world. But I need you, darling--I love you, and I 'd
rather die than live without you. We 'll sell out this business, leave
this place, and go back to the East and civilization to live, where
there 's something to see and to do. You shall have everything,
anything, dear, that your heart desires--only say that you love me."
And bending nearer, he sought to draw her to him in a passionate
embrace.
Pert did not move from her position in the hammock; but firmly resisted
his endeavor, and, taking his arm from around her waist, simply handed
it back to him, as it were. (A maneuvre upon a girl's part more
aggravating, _en passant_, than any other one thing she can do.)
"I am sorry," she said, as Arthur still sat in the hammock beside her,
silent and downcast--"I 'm dreadfully sorry, Arthur, that you should
have brought this matter up again. We have been such friends so many
years, and you are such a good friend, when you are only a friend. I
hate to wound you, if, indeed, you care for me as you say you do; but I
do n't love you, Arthur, in the way you would have me, and I know I
never shall. It's best that I should tell you this plainly, and I know
you will be glad of it in the end. I am not the girl you think me,
Arthur. You do n't know me as I really am. If you did you 'd be glad
to have escaped so luckily. I always try to make a good impression,
but really I am willful, selfish and discontented. You would be
awfully sorry when it was too late. Believe me, I am telling the
truth. So let's never talk about this any more, but be the good
friends we have always been."
Arthur jumped up impatiently. "You are trifling with me, as you always
do," he said, with a savage ring in his voice. "I do n't care what
your faults are. I want you, just as you are, to be my wife. Care for
you as I say I do! I have loved you since we were children together.
I have never cared for any one else. My every thought has been for
your happiness. I have never spared trouble, time or money in doing
what I thought would please you--and why do you suppose I 've done so?
for fun? for glory? for something to pass away time? I tell you, Pert,
I 'm getting mighty tired of this kind of foolishness. You and I are
fitted for each other by reason of natural situation, if nothing else.
What other man is there around here who is anywhere near your equal,
socially? What kind of a life will you lead cooped up on this hillside
farm as the years go by?--a living death, only think of it!
"Your father is willing, anxious, that you should be married and safely
provided for--I have talked with him; he has told me so. My father
simply worships you, and nothing on earth would please him so much as
to have you for a daughter-in-law."
"But, Arthur," said Pert, almost pleadingly, "I have told you how I
feel about it. I don't love you, and how can I marry a man I do n't
love? I am fonder of you, much fonder, than of any other man I know,
and I can't begin to tell you how bad I should feel to lose your
friendship, but--"
She paused as a sound of voices reached them, and in a moment, to her
great relief, Sadie and Checkers, with the banjo, came round the house
and joined them.
One sweep of the strings, to be sure it was in tune, and Checkers
tendered Pert the instrument.
"No, I shan't play; we want to hear you," she laughingly exclaimed,
putting her hands behind her. "I am only a novice, and you know the
old proverb, 'The poor ye have always with ye.'"
Without more ado Checkers sat down and played a couple of lively airs.
"Now, a song," exclaimed Pert; "I am sure that you sing."
"How did you guess it?" asked Checkers, smiling. "Well, what shall it
be, a 'serio-chronic,' or a song about some 'old oaken' thing?"
"Oh, something funny, Mr. Campbell," said Sadie.
Checkers sang a song of an Irish dance. This he followed with one of
the popular ballads of the day, full of melody.
He had a clear, high voice, with a touch of that boyish sweetness in
it, which made Emmet so famous. A sweetness to which the open air and
the sharpness of the banjo added a charm.
The girls were delighted. They called upon him for song after song,
until Arthur, pulling out his watch, said abruptly, "It is time to be
going," and went to untie the horses.
Amid hearty hand-shakings and cordial invitations to call again soon,
Checkers said good-by, and climbed into the buggy as Arthur drove up.
Down the driveway, out upon the moon-lit road, they sat in silence.
Each was busy with his own thoughts. Arthur cut the horses viciously
from time to time for no apparent reason. Checkers smoked a cigarette
as though altogether pleased with himself. Arthur finally broke the
spell. "Well," he exclaimed, with a rising inflection.
"A nice line of girls. Miss Barlow's 'Class A'" answered Checkers.
"The other one is all right, too; but she 's just a few chips shy on
looks."
"Looks are not the only thing in the world," snapped Arthur; "beauty's
only skin deep."
"It might improve some of our friends a little to skin 'em, then, if
that's so," laughed Checkers. "That reminds me," he continued
musingly, "of what a friend of mine, 'Push' Miller, told me once. He
said he never in his life ran across two pretty girls that trotted
together. If one of 'em was a queen, her partner was safe to be about
a nine-spot. He figured that the pretty one used the other as a kind
of foil, while the homely one trailed along to get in on the excess
trade which the pretty one drew, and turned over to her."
As Arthur neither laughed at, nor replied to, this sally, Checkers
concluded he had a grouch, and left him to his own devices.
That night, upon going to bed, the girls, as was natural, had compared
notes, and quickly discovered the apparent discrepancy between
Checkers' statement to Mrs. Barlow, and the story Arthur had related to
Pert.
"I am sorry to know that Mr. Campbell has told a deliberate lie," said
Pert, "but there is some excuse for him, after all, for any other
explanation would have been embarrassing."
"Oh, a little thing like a lie or two does n't stand in the way of the
average man," said Sadie.
"Well, there is something back of Arthur's story, Sadie, I know from
the way he hesitated. We 'll know all about it before long, I guess.
He 's an awfully cute little fellow, though, isn't he? I hope he'll
decide to stay a while; he 's such jolly good company, and Arthur's so
tiresome."
"Poor Arthur!" sighed Sadie.
"Poor Pert," echoed Pert.