|LATE in the afternoon of the day of his arrival in Buenaventura, in the
cool recess of the deep veranda flanking the western side of the _patio_
of the Hotel Mateo, John Stuart Webster sat in a wicker chair, cigar in
mouth, elbows on knees, hands clasping a light Malacca stick, with the
end of which he jabbed meditatively at a crack in the recently sprinkled
tiled floor, as if punctuating each bitter thought that chased its
predecessor through his somewhat numbed brain.
In Mr. Webster's own whimsical phraseology, his clock had been fixed,
on the instant he recognized in the object of his youthful partner's
adoration the same winsome woman he had enthroned in his own secret
castle of love. From that precise second Billy's preserve was as safe
from encroachment by his friend as would be a bale of Confederate
currency in an armour-steel vault on the three-thousand-foot level of
a water-filled mine. Unfortunately for Webster, however, while he knew
himself fairly well, he was not aware of this at the time. Viewed in the
light of calmer reflection, Mr. Webster was quite certain he had made a
star-spangled monkey of himself.
He sought solace now in the fact that there had been mitigating
circumstances. Throughout the entire journey from the steamer to the
hotel, Billy had not once mentioned in its entirety the name of his
adored one. In any Spanish-American country the name Dolores is not so
uncommon as to excite suspicion; and Webster who had seen the mercurial
William in and out of many a desperate love affair in the latter's
brittle teens and early twenties, attached so little importance to
this latest outbreak of the old disease that it did not occur to him to
cross-examine Billy, after eliciting the information that the young man
had not lost his heart to a local belle.
The knowledge that Billy's inamorata was an American girl served to
clear what threatened to be a dark atmosphere, and so Webster promptly
had dismissed the subject.
Any psychologist will tell one that it is quite possible for a person to
dream, in the short space of a split second, of events which, if really
consummated, would involve the passage of days, weeks, months, or even
years! Now, Jack Webster was an extra fast thinker, asleep or awake,
and in his mind's eye, as he sat there in the _patio_, he had a dreadful
vision of himself with a delicate spray of lilies of the valley in
the lapel of his dress coat, as he supported the malarial Billy to the
altar, there to receive the promise of Dolores to love, honour, and
obey until death them did part. As the said Billy's dearest friend and
business associate--as the only logical single man available--the job
was Webster's without a struggle. _Diablo!_ Why did people persist in
referring to such runners-up in the matrimonial handicap as _best_ men,
when at the very least calculation the groom was the winner?
That wedding party was the very least of the future events Mr. Webster's
hectic imagination conjured up. In the course of time (he reflected),
a baby would doubtless arrive to bless the Geary household. Godfather?
John Stuart Webster, of course. And when the fruit of that happy union
should be old enough to “ride horsey,” who but the family friend would
be required to get down on all fours and accommodate the unconscious
tyrant? Boy or girl, it would make no difference; whichever way the cat
jumped, he would be known as Uncle Jack; Billy would drag him up to the
house once or twice a week, and he would go for the sake of the baby;
then they would make him stay all night, and Mrs. Billy would sigh and
try to smile when she detected cigarette ashes on the chiffonier in the
spare bedroom--infallible sign that there was a bachelor about. Besides,
happily married women have a mania for marrying off their husband's
bachelor friends, and Mrs. Billy might scout up a wife for him--a wife
he didn't want--and----No, he would _not_ be the family friend. Nobody
should ever Uncle Jack him if he could help it, and the only way to
avoid the honour would be to eschew the job of best man, to resolve, in
the very beginning of things, to beware of entangling friendships. Thus,
as in a glass darkly, John Stuart Webster, in one illuminating moment,
saw his future, together with his sole avenue of escape.
All too forcibly Webster realized that Billy's bally-hooing must have
created a favourable impression in Dolores's mind prior to the arrival
of the victim; hence it seemed reasonable to presume that when she
discovered in Billy Geary's Jack Webster her own soiled, ragged,
bewhiskered, belligerent, battered knight, Sir John Stuart Webster of
Death Valley, California, U. S. A., extreme measures would have to be
taken instantly to save the said Webster from being spattered with
a dear old friendship in the future--and a dear old friendship with
Dolores Ruey was something he did not want, had never figured on, and
shuddered at accepting. All things considered, it had appeared wise to
him to challenge, politely but firmly, her suggestion that they had met.
Of course, Webster had not really thought all this at the time; he had
felt it and acted entirely upon instinct. A little private cogitation,
however, had served to straighten out his thinking apparatus
and-convince him that he had acted hastily--wherefore he would (a still,
small voice whispered) repent at leisure. Dolores had not pressed the
question (he was grateful to her for that), and for as long as five
minutes he had congratulated himself on his success in “putting it over”
on her. Then he had caught her scrutinizing the knuckles of his right
hand; following her glance, he had seen that the crests of two knuckles
were slightly bluish and tender, as new skin has a habit of showing on
tanned knuckles. With a sinking heart he had recalled how painfully and
deeply he had lacerated those knuckles less than a month before on the
strong white teeth of a fat male masher, and while the last ugly shred
of evidence had dropped off a week before, nevertheless to the critical
and discerning eye there was still faint testimony of that fateful
joust--just sufficient to convict!
He had glanced at her swiftly; she had caught the glance and replied
to it with the faintest possible gleam of mischievous challenge in her
glorious brown orbs; whereupon John Stuart Webster had immediately done
what every honest male biped has been doing since Adam told his first
lie to Eve--blushed, and had drawn a little taunting smile for his
pains.
As Solomon once remarked, the wicked flee when no man pursueth; and
that smile had scarcely faded before John Stuart Webster had unanimously
resolved upon the course he should have pursued in the first place. He
would investigate Billy's mining concession immediately; provided it
should prove worth while, he would finance it and put the property on a
paying basis; after which he would see to it that the very best doctors
in the city of Buenaventura should inform Billy, unofficially and in the
strictest confidence, that if he desired to preserve the life of Senor
Juan Webstaire, he should forthwith pack that rapidly disintegrating
person off to a more salubrious climate.
Having made his decision, John Stuart Webster immediately took heart
of hope and decided to lead trumps. He leaned over and slapped Billy
Geary's knee affectionately.
“Well, Bill, you saffron-coloured old wreck, how long do you suppose
it will take for you to pick up enough strength and courage to do some
active mining? You're looking like food shot from guns.”
“Billy needs a vacation and a change of climate,” Dolores declared with
that motherly conviction all womankind feels toward a sick man.
“So I do, Dolores,” Billy replied. “And I'm going to take it. Up there
in the hills back of San Miguel de Padua, the ubiquitous mosquito is
not, the climate is almost temperate--and 'tis there that I would be.”
“You can't start too soon to please me, Billy,” Webster declared. “I'm
anxious to get that property on a paying basis, so I can get out of the
country.”
“Why, Johnny,” the amazed Billy declared, “I thought you would stay and
help run the mine.”
“Indeed! Well, why do you suppose I spent so much time teaching you how
to run a mine, you young idiot, if not against just such a time as this?
You found this concession and tied it up; I'll finance it and help you
get everything started; but after that, I'm through, and you can manage
it on salary and name the salary yourself. You have a greater interest
in this country than I, William; and so with your kind permission we'll
hike up to that concession tomorrow and give it the double-O; then, if
I can O. K. the property, we'll cable for the machinery I ordered just
before I left Denver, and get busy. We ought to have our first clean-up
within ninety days. What kind of labour have you in this country?
Anything worth while? If not, we'll have to import some white men that
can do things.”
“Gosh, but you're in a hurry,” Billy murmured. He had been long enough
in Sobrante to have acquired a touch of the _manana_ spirit of the
lowlands, and he disliked exceedingly the thought of having his
courtship interrupted on a minute's notice.
“You know me, son. I'm a hustler on the job,” Webster reminded him
brutally; “so the sooner you start, the sooner you can get back and
accumulate more malaria. What accommodations have you up there?”
“None, Jack.”
“Then you had better get some, Billy. I think you told me we have
to take horses at San Miguel de Padua to ride in to the mine.” Billy
nodded. “Then you had better buy a tent and bedding for both of us, ship
the stuff up to San Miguel de Padua, go up with it and engage horses,
a good cook, and a couple of reliable _mozos_. When you have everything
ready, telegraph me and I'll come up.”
“Why can't you come up with me?” Billy demanded.
“I have to see a man, and write some letters and send a cablegram and
wait for an answer. I may have to loaf around here for two or three
days. By the way, what did you do for that friend I sent to letter of
introduction?”
“Exactly what you told me to do, Johnny”
“Where is he now?”
“At El Buen Amigo--the same place where I'm living.”
“All right. We'll not discuss business any more, because we have
finished with the business in hand--at least I have, Billy. When you get
back to your hostelry, you might tell my friend I shall expect him over
to dine with me this evening, if he can manage it.”
For an hour they discussed various subjects; then Billy, declaring
the siesta was almost over and the shops reopening as a consequence,
announced his intention of doing his shopping, said good-bye to Dolores
and Webster, and lugubriously departed on the business in hand.
“Why are you in such a hurry, Mr. Webster?” Dolores demanded. “You
haven't been in Buenaventura six hours until you've managed to make me
perfectly miserable.”
“I'm terribly sorry. I didn't mean to.”
“Didn't you know Billy Geary is my personal property?”
“No, but I suspected he might be. Bill's generous that way. He never
hesitates to give himself to a charming woman.”
“This was a case of mutual self-defense. Billy hasn't any standing
socially, you know. I believe he has been seen shooting craps--isn't
that what you call it?--with gentlemen of more or less colour; then he
appeared in public with me, minus a chaperon--”
“Fooey!”
“Likewise fiddlesticks! I should have had the _entrée_ to the society
of my father's old friends but for that; when old Mrs. General Maldonado
lectured me (the dear, aristocratic soul conceived it to be her duty) on
the impropriety of appearing on the Male-con with Billy and my guardian,
who happens to be Billy's landlady, I tried to explain our American
brand of democracy, but failed. So I haven't been invited anywhere
since, and life would have been very dull without Billy. He has been a
dear--and you have taken him away.”
Webster laughed. “Well, be patient, Miss Ruey, and I'll give him back
to you with considerably more money than he will require for your joint
comfort. Billy in financial distress is a joy forever, but Billy in
a top hat and a frock coat on the sunny side of Easy Street will be
absolutely irresistible.”
“He's a darling. Ever since my arrival he has dedicated his life to
keeping me amused.” She rose. “Despite your wickedness, Mr. Webster,
I am going to be good to you. Billy and I always have five o'clock tea
here in the veranda. Would you care to come to my tea-party?”
“Nothing could give me greater pleasure,” he assured her.
She nodded brightly to him. “I'm going to run up to my room and put some
powder on my nose,” she explained.
“But you'll return before five o'clock?” Webster was amazed to hear
himself plead.
“You do not deserve such consideration, but I'll come back in about
twenty minutes,” she answered and left him in the spot where we find
him at the opening of this chapter, in pensive mood, jabbing his Malacca
stick into a crack in the tiled floor.
Presently Webster shuddered. “Good heavens,” he soliloquized, “what a
jackass-play I made when I declined to admit we had met before. What
harm could I have accomplished by admitting it? I must be getting old,
because I'm getting cowardly. I'm afraid of myself! When I met that
girl last month, it was in a region that God forgot--and I was a human
caterpillar, which a caterpillar is a hairy, lowly, unlovely thing that
crawls until it is metamorphosed into a butterfly and flies. Following
out the simile, I am now a human butterfly, not recognizable as the
caterpillar to one woman out of ten million; yet she pegs me out at
first. Gad, but she's a remarkable girl! And now I'm in for it. I've
aroused her curiosity; and being a woman, she will not rest until she
has fathomed the reason back of my extraordinary conduct. I think I'm
going to be smeared with confusion. A spineless man like you, Johnny
Webster, stands as much show in a battle of wits with that woman as
a one-legged white man at a coon cakewalk. I'm afraid of her, and I'm
afraid of myself. I'm glad I'm going up to the mine. I'll go as quickly
as I can, and stay as long as I can.”
As Webster viewed the situation, his decision to see as little as
possible of Dolores during his brief stay in Sobrante was a wise one.
The less he saw of her (he told himself), the better for his peace of
mind, for he was forty years old, and he had never loved before. For him
this fever that burned in his blood, this delicious agony that throbbed
in his heart--and all on the very ghost of provocation--were so many
danger-signals, heralds of that grand passion which, coming to a man of
forty, generally lasts him the remainder of his natural existence.
“This certainly beats the Dutch!” he murmured, and beyond the
peradventure of a doubt, it did. He reflected that all of his life the
impulses of his generous nature had been his undoing. In an excess
of paternalism he had advised Billy to marry the girl and not permit
himself to develop into a homeless, childless, loveless man such as
Exhibit A, there present; following his natural inclination to play any
game,' red or black, he had urged Billy to marry the girl immediately
and had generously offered a liberal subsidy to make the marriage
possible, for he disliked any interference in his plans to make those he
loved happy. And now----
Webster was forced to admit he was afraid of himself. His was the
rapidly disappearing code of the old unfettered West, that a man shall
never betray his friend in thought, word, or deed. To John Stuart
Webster any crime against friendship was the most heinous in all the
calendar of human frailty; even to dream of slipping into Billy's shoes
now would be monstrous; yet Webster knew he could not afford a test
of strength between his ancient friendship for Billy and his masculine
desire for a perfect mate. Remained then but one course:
“I must run like a road-runner,” was the way Webster expressed it.