The Illyrian Commission had just breakfasted when their train reached
Farrington on the State line, where the Mayor of the capital city, Mr.
Clarence E. Tibbotts, _alias_ Wrong Number, and Mr. Zoloff Bensaris,
all in shining hats, boarded the train.
Having studied the portraits of the distinguished Illyrians in a
Sunday supplement provided by Mr. Tibbotts, Mr. Bensaris effected the
introductions without an error, and having been carefully coached by
the same guide he did not handle his two-gallon hat as though it were a
tray of chocolate sundaes. The kindness of the mayor and his associates
in coming so far to meet the Commission deeply touched the visitors.
The Fourth Assistant Secretary of State, who was doing the honors of
the American government, heard without emotion of the slight changes in
the programme.
“We thought the Commission would be tired of the train,” explained
Wrong Number, who was relieved to find that his cutaway was of the same
vintage as the Fourth Assistant Secretary’s; “so we get off at the
first stop this side of town and motor in.”
“Luncheon at Mr. Gurley’s,” said the Secretary, consulting a sheaf of
telegrams.
“Had to change that, too,” said Wrong Number carelessly; “they have
scarlet fever at the Gurleys. The Webster G. Burgesses will throw the
luncheon.”
The Secretary made a note of the change and thrust his papers into his
pocket. Mr. Tibbotts handed round his cigarette case, a silver trinket
bearing “Lord Templeton’s” head in enamel relief, a Christmas gift from
Mr. Webster G. Burgess, and joined in a discussion of the morning’s
news from the Balkans, where the Illyrian troops were acquitting
themselves with the highest credit.
When the suburban villas of Ravenswood began to dance along the
windows, Mr. Tibbotts marshaled his party and as they stepped from
the private car a band struck up the Illyrian national hymn. Several
dozen students from the nearby college who chanced to be at the station
raised a cheer. As the Illyrians were piloted across the platform to
the fleet of waiting automobiles, the spectators were interested in
the movements of another party,--a party fully as distinguished in
appearance--that emerged from the station and tripped briskly into a
sleeper farther along in the train that had discharged the Illyrians.
Here, too, were silk hats upon two sober-looking gentlemen who could
hardly be other than statesmen, and uniforms of great splendor upon
five stalwart forms, with topping plumes waving blithely in the autumn
air. And out of the corner of his eye Mr. Clarence E. Tibbotts, just
seating himself in a big touring car, between the Fourth Assistant
Secretary of State and the Illyrian Minister of Finance, saw Peterson’s
work, and knew that it was good.
The procession swept into town at a lively clip, set by the driver of
the first car, that bore the Mayor and the Minister of Foreign Affairs,
which was driven by a victor of many motor speed trials carefully
chosen by Wrong Number for this important service. The piquant flavor
of Wrong Number’s language as he pointed out objects of interest
amused the American Secretary, much bored in his pilgrimages by the
solemnities of reception committees, and it served also to convince the
Illyrian Minister of Finance of the inadequacy of his own English.
Lusty cheering greeted the party as it moved slowly through the
business district. When the Illyrian Minister and the Fourth Secretary
lifted their hats Wrong Number kept time with them; he enjoyed lifting
his hat. He enjoyed also a view of half a dozen clerks on the steps of
the White River National, who cheered deliriously as they espied their
associate and hastened within to spread the news of his latest exploit
through the cages.
It is fortunate that Mr. Tibbotts had taken the precaution to plant
a motion-picture camera opposite the Burgess home, for otherwise the
historical student of the future might be puzzled to find that the
first edition of the _Evening Journal_ of that day showed the Illyrian
delegation passing through the gates of the Union Station, with a
glimpse of Mrs. Arnold D. Gurley handing a large bouquet of roses to
a tall gentleman who was not in fact the Illyrian Minister of Foreign
Affairs but the proprietor of Peterson’s bath parlors. The _Journal_
suppressed its pictures in later editions, thereby saving its face, and
printed without illustrations an excellent account of the reception of
the Illyrians at Ravenswood and of the luncheon, from facts furnished
by Mr. Tibbotts, who stood guard at the door of the Burgess home while
the function was in progress in the dining room.
Who ate Mrs. Gurley’s luncheon is a moot question in the select circles
of the capital city. Peterson and his party might have enjoyed the
repast had not the proprietor of the bath parlors, after accepting Mrs.
Gurley’s bouquet at the station gates, vanished with his accomplices in
the general direction of their lodge room of the Order of the Golden
Buck.
When foolish reporters tried to learn at the City Hall why the Mayor
had changed without warning the plans for the reception, that official
referred them to the Secretary of the Chamber of Commerce, who in turn
directed the inquirers to the Governor’s office and the Governor,
having been properly admonished by his wife, knew nothing whatever
about it.