When, at last--and it took some time--Martha Phipps was actually
convinced that her lodger's “Cousin Gussie” was no less a person than
the senior partner of the famous banking firm of Cabot, Bancroft and
Cabot, she was almost as excited as he.
“Cabot, Bancroft and Cabot,” she repeated. “Why, everybody knows about
them! They are the biggest bankers in New England. I have heard father
say so ever so many times. And this Mr. Cabot, is he really your
cousin?”
Galusha nodded. “Oh, yes,” he said. “He is my cousin--really he is. I
have always called him Cousin Gussie; that is,” he added, “except when I
worked for him, of course. Then he didn't like to have me.”
“Worked for him?”
“Yes, in his office, in the--ah--banking house, you know.”
“Do you mean to say you used to work for Cabot, Bancroft and Cabot? Were
you a banker?”
Galusha shook his head. “No,” he said. “Dear me, no! But once I tried to
be.”
“Oh! And you gave it up?”
“_I_ was given up--as a bad job. If you don't mind,” he added,
apologetically, “I'd rather not talk about that. I've gotten over it
a long while ago, or I thought I had, but for a time I--I felt very
badly--ah--ungrateful, you know.”
Martha didn't know, nor did she in the least understand, but she did
not, of course, press the subject.
“Why, I can hardly believe it,” she said. “That about your bein' that
Mr. Cabot's cousin, I mean. But of course I do believe it, if you say
so, Mr. Bangs. And you think he would tell me what to do with this
Development stock of mine, whether it is worth anything or not? He would
know, if anybody did, that's a fact.”
Galusha nodded assent.
“He knows all about everything,” he declared; “everything of that kind,
I mean. He is used to making all sorts of--ah--investments for people,
and taking care of their money, and all that sort of thing. Why,” he
added, as a final clincher, “he takes care of all my money, really, he
does.”
Miss Phipps laughed.
“And that I suppose is enough to keep one man busy,” she observed.
Galusha was too much in earnest to notice the sarcasm.
“I'm sure it must be,” he said. “I never could do it myself.”
“I can believe that without any trouble. Now what is your idea, Mr.
Bangs; to write to your cousin, tell him everything I've told you, and
then ask his advice? Is that it?”
That was not exactly it, apparently. Galusha thought that perhaps he
might go to Boston forthwith, on the very next train, and consult Cousin
Gussie in person. But Martha did not think this advisable.
“I certainly shouldn't put you to all that trouble,” she said. “No,
I shouldn't, so please don't let's waste time arguin' about it. And,
besides, I think a letter would be a great deal better.”
Galusha said that a letter was so slow.
“Maybe so, but it is sure. Truly now, Mr. Bangs, do you believe if you
went to your cousin that you could tell him this Development Company
yarn without gettin' it all tangled up? I doubt if you could.”
He reflected for a moment, and then ruefully shook his head.
“I'm afraid you are right,” he admitted. “I presume I could learn
it--ah--by rote, perhaps, but I doubt if ever I could understand it
thoroughly.”
“Well, never mind. My plan would be to have you write your cousin a
letter givin' him all the particulars. I'll help you write the letter,
if you'll let me. And we'll ask him to write right back and tell us two
things: Number One--Is the Development stock worth anything, and what?
Number Two--If it is worth anything, can he sell it for that? What do
you think of that idea?”
Naturally, Galusha thought it a wonderful idea. He was very enthusiastic
about it.
“Why, Miss Phipps--Miss Martha, I mean,” he declared, “I really think
we--ah--may consider your troubles almost at an end. I shouldn't be
in the least surprised if Cousin Gussie bought that stock of yours
himself.”
Martha smiled, faintly. “I should,” she said, “be very much surprised.
But perhaps he may know some one who will buy it at some price or
other. And, no matter whether they do or not, I am ever and ever so much
obliged to you, Mr. Bangs, for all your patience and sympathy.”
And, in spite of her professed pessimism she could not help feeling a
bit more hopeful, even sharing a bit of her lodger's confidence. And so
when Primmie, in tears, came again that afternoon to beg to be retained
in service, Martha consented to try to maintain the present arrangement
for a few weeks more, at least.
“Although the dear land knows I shouldn't, Primmie,” she said. “It's
just postponin' what is almost sure to come, and that isn't right for
either of us.”
Primmie's grin extended from ear to ear.
“You bet you it's right for one of us, Miss Martha,” she declared.
“And you ain't the one, neither. My Lord of Isrul, if I don't feel some
better'n I did when I come into this room! Whew! My savin' soul! Zach
Bloomer he says to me this mornin'. 'What's the matter, Posy?' he says.
'Seems to me you look sort of wilted lately. You better brace up,' he
says, 'or folks'll be callin' you a faded flower.' 'Well,' says I, 'I
may be faded, but there's one old p'ison ivy around here that's fresh
enough to make up.' Oh, I squashed HIM all righty, but I never took no
comfort out of doin' it. I ain't took no comfort for the last two, three
days. But now--Whew!”
The letter to Cousin Gussie was written that very afternoon. Mr. Bangs
wrote it, with helpful suggestions, many of them, from Miss Phipps. At
Martha's suggestion the envelope was marked “Personal.”
“I suppose it is foolish of me,” she said, “but somehow I hate to have
my affairs talked all over that office. Even when I was a little girl,
and things went wrong in school, I used to save up my cryin' until I got
home. I'm the same now. This Development Company milk is spilled, and,
whether any of it can be saved or not, there is no use callin' a crowd
to look at the puddle. If your cousin thinks it's necessary to tell
other Boston folks, I presume he will, but WE won't tell anybody but
him.”
Galusha hoped to receive an answer the following day, but none came. Nor
did it come the next day, nor the next. That week passed and no reply
came from Cousin Gussie. Galusha began to worry a little, but Miss
Phipps did not.
“Perhaps he's away for a day or two, sick or somethin',” she suggested.
“Perhaps he's lookin' up some facts about the Development Company.
Perhaps he hasn't had time to read the letter at all yet. Mercy me, you
mustn't expect as busy a man as the head of Cabot, Bancroft and Cabot
to drop everything else and run around in circles attendin' to my little
two-for-a-cent business!”
The relative of the great man admitted that there was reason in this
line of argument, but he was impatient, nevertheless. His daily walks
now included trips to the post office. On one of those trips he caught a
glimpse of Mr. Pulcifer's hemispherical countenance through its wearer's
office window, and, on the spur of the moment's impulse, went in.
Horatio, who was smoking his customary cigar, reading a political
circular and humming “Beautiful Lady” all at the same time, looked up
from the reading and greeted him boisterously.
“Well, well, well!” exclaimed Raish. “If it ain't the Perfessor
again! Welcome to amongst our midst, as the feller said. Have a chair,
Perfessor. How's things in the graveyard these days? Kind of dead around
there, eh? Haw, haw, haw!”
He enjoyed his joke and laugh and Galusha smiled because he felt that
politeness required it. When the laugh and smile had run their course,
he endeavored to come to the point.
“Mr. Pulcifer,” he said, “I--if you are not too greatly occupied I
should like to ask--ah--a business question. Ah--may I?”
He most assuredly could. In fact, he was urged to ask it then and there.
“Never too busy to talk business, a feller usually ain't; eh, Perfessor?
Haw, haw! I'd say he wan't, eh? Set down, set down and ease your mind.
What's the business question? Let 'er go.”
Mr. Bangs let her go to the extent of stammering a request to be given
his companion's candid opinion concerning the shares of the Wellmouth
Development Company. He was--ah--somewhat interested in them, so he
said.
Raish leaned back in his chair and scrutinized the questioner. He shot
at least five deep-drawn puffs of smoke into the already murky air of
the little office before replying.
“Humph!” he grunted, after the fifth puff. “Wellmouth Development
Company, eh? You're interested in that, are you?”
“Why--ah--yes, yes. To a certain extent, yes, Mr. Pulcifer.”
“Humph! What d'you mean, interested? How interested?”
“Why, as--ah--as an investment, you know. As something to put one's
money into.”
“Humph! Was you thinkin' of puttin' some of yours into it?”
“Why, not exactly. But, you see, a friend of mine--But, really, I think
I shouldn't give any further particulars at the present time. You'll
excuse me under the circumstances, Mr. Pulcifer, I'm sure. Dear me, I
hope you will.”
He was forgiven. Mr. Pulcifer assured him to that effect. But Raish
was still uncertain just how to proceed. He continued to puff and
scrutinize.
“What I wish to know,” continued his caller, after another moment's
interval, “is--well, in short, I should like to know your opinion of
Wellmouth Development shares as an investment security.”
“Um--ye-es. Well, you said that before.”
“Did I? Dear me, I believe I did. Well, then, suppose, just suppose that
I actually did wish to buy some of those shares. Would you consider it a
good thing for me to do?”
Here at last was something tangible--and promising. Mr. Pulcifer's puffy
lids drew nearer together to hide the gleam behind them. He took the
cigar from his mouth and held it between the fingers of his right hand.
During his next speech he gesticulated with it.
“Would I consid--” he began, and then paused, apparently overcome by his
feelings. The pause was not long, however. “Would I consider Wellmouth
Development a good thing for you to put your money in? WOULD I?”
“Ah--yes. Would you?”
“Say, Perfessor, you listen to me. _I_ know all about Wellmouth
Development. You've come to the right place. You listen.”
Galusha listened, listened for a long time. The red of the Pulcifer
cigar tip died out and that of the Pulcifer face brightened.
“And so I say,” vowed Raish, in conclusion, “with all that property
behind it and all that future ahead of it, if Development ain't a good
investment, what is?”
“I don't know, I'm sure,” confessed Galusha. “But--”
“Don't know? You bet you don't know! Nor nobody else. Not for quick
returns, maybe--though you can't never tell. But for a feller that's
willin' to buy and put away and hang on--say, how can you beat it?”
“I don't know, but--”
“You bet you don't know! The main thing is to buy right. And I'm goin'
to put you wise--yes, sir, wise to somethin' I wouldn't let every Tom,
Dick, and Harry in on, by a consider'ble sight. I think I can locate a
fair-sized block of that stock at--well, at a little bit underneath the
market price. I believe--yes, sir, I believe I can get it for you at--at
as low as eighteen dollars a share. I won't swear I can, of course, but
I MAY be able to. Only you'll have to promise not to tell anybody how
you got it.”
“Eighteen dollars a share? Is that a fair price, do you think, Mr.
Pulcifer?”
“FAIR price?” Mr. Pulcifer was overcome by the absurdity of the
question. “A fair price!” he repeated. “Man alive, it's a darned LOW
price! You buy Wellmouth Development at that price and then set back and
hang on. Yes, sir, that's all you'll have to do, just hang on and wait.”
To his surprise, Mr. Bangs seemed to find something humorous in this
suggestion. Instead of appearing thrilled, as he certainly should, he
smiled.
“Ah--yes,” he observed, quietly. “That is what my friend has been doing,
I believe. Yes, indeed, just that.”
Raish did not smile. He looked puzzled and a bit perturbed.
“What friend?” he demanded. “Been doin' what?”
“Hanging on and waiting, as you advise, Mr. Pulcifer. She has
had--ah--several shares of the Development stock and she--”
“Hold on! Did you come here to SELL somebody's stock for 'em?”
“Why, no, not exactly. But, as I say, a friend of mine has some and she
was anxious to know what it was worth at the present time. When I tell
her that you will give eighteen dollars a share for it--”
“Here!” Raish's smile and his urbanity had vanished. “Here,” he
demanded, “what are you talkin' about? Who the devil said anything about
my givin' eighteen dollars a share?”
“Why, I understood you to say that the--ah--shares were cheap at that
figure, that it was a very low price for them. You did say that, didn't
you?”
Mr. Pulcifer seemed to find articulation difficult. He blew and
sputtered like a stranded porpoise and his face became redder than ever,
but he did not answer the question.
“I understood--” began Galusha, again, but a roar interrupted him.
“Aw, you understand too darn much,” shouted Raish. “You go back and tell
Martha Phipps I say I don't know what them shares of hers are worth
and I don't care. You tell her I don't want to buy 'em and I don't know
anybody that does. Yes, and you tell her that if I did know anybody that
was fool enough to bid one dollar of real money for 'em I'd sell him
mine and be darn glad of the chance. And say, you tell her not to bother
me no more. She took her chance same as the rest of us, and if she don't
like it she can go--Eh? What is it?”
His caller had risen, rather suddenly for him, and was standing beside
the desk. There was a peculiar expression on his thin face.
“What's the matter?” demanded Mr. Pulcifer. Galusha's gaze was very
direct.
“I wouldn't say that,” he said, quietly.
“Eh? Say what? I was just goin' to say that if Martha Phipps didn't like
waitin' same as the rest of us she--”
“Yes, yes,” hastily, “I know. But I shouldn't say it, if I were you.”
“You wouldn't. Why not, for thunder sakes?”
“Because--well, I am sure you were speaking hastily--without thinking.”
“Is that so? How do YOU know I wasn't thinkin'?”
“Because I am sure no one who had stopped to think would send that sort
of message to a lady.”
“Humph!... Well, I swear!... Wouldn't send--I want to know!”
“Yes--ah--and now you do know. Good-day, Mr. Pulcifer.”
He was at the door when the surprised and, to tell the truth, somewhat
disconcerted Horatio called after him.
“Here! Hold on, Perfessor,” he hailed; “don't go off mad. I didn't mean
nothin'. Er--er--say, Perfessor, I don't know's there's any use in your
tellin' Martha what I said about them Development shares bein' cheap
at eighteen. Of course, that was all--er--more or less of a joke, you
understand, and--Eh? What say?”
“I said I understood, Mr. Pulcifer.”
“Yes--er--yes, yes. Glad you do; I thought you would. Now I tell you
what to do: You tell Martha... you tell her... say, what ARE you goin'
to tell her?”
“Nothing. Good-day, Mr. Pulcifer.”
Galusha did not tell Martha of the interview in the real estate dealer's
office, but the recollection of it did not tend to make him more easy
in his mind concerning her investment in Wellmouth Development Company.
And, as another week went by and still Cousin Gussie did not reply to
the letter of inquiry, his uneasiness grew with his impatience. Another
and more practical person would have called the Boston bankers by
telephone, but Galusha did not think of that. Martha offered no
suggestions; her advice was to wait.
“I don't think we ought to hurry your cousin, Mr. Bangs,” she said.
“He's probably lookin' into things, and he'll write when the time
comes.”
Galusha devoutly wished the time would come soon. He somewhat felt a
great responsibility in the matter. This sense of responsibility caused
him to assume more and more optimism as his nervousness increased. Each
day of waiting found him covering his disappointment and anxiety with a
more cheerful prophecy.
“I've been thinking, Miss Martha,” he said, “that Cousin Gussie must be
MOST interested in the--ah--Development Company. I really believe that
he may be considering going into it himself--ah--extensively, so to
speak. The more he delays replying to our letter, the more certain I am
that this is the case. You see, it is quite logical. Dear me, yes. If he
were not interested at all he would have replied at once, any one would.
And if only a little interested, he would have replied--say, at the end
of a week. But now he has taken almost three weeks, so--so--well, _I_
think we may infer GREAT interest, personal interest on his part. Now,
don't you think so, Miss Martha?”
Martha shrugged. “Accordin' to that reasonin,” she said, “if he never
answers at all it'll be because he's interested to death. Well, it
begins to look as if that might be it. There, there, Mr. Bangs, I
mustn't talk that way, must I? We won't give up the ship as long's the
pumps work, as father used to say.”
It was the first symptom of discouragement she had shown. The next
morning Galusha crept downstairs before daylight, left a note on the
dining table saying he would be back next day, and started on his long
tramp to the railway station. At noon of that day he entered the Boston
office of Cabot, Bancroft and Cabot.
Disappointment met him at the threshold, so to speak. The young,
extremely young, gentleman at the desk by the door, informed him that
Mr. Augustus Cabot was not in. Pressed still further, he admitted that
he would not be in that day. No, he would not be in that week. No, he
was not in Boston. Where was he? Well, he had gone away and the date of
his return was extremely uncertain.
Galusha, his spirits at a low ebb, stroked his chin in sad perplexity.
“Dear me! Dear me!” he observed. And then added:
“Is--is anybody in?”
Considering that the space behind the mahogany and brass railings was
crowded with clerks and that from the various inner offices people
were constantly coming and going, the question was peculiar. The young
guardian of the portal seemed to find it so. He regarded Mr. Bangs
with the puzzled stare of one not certain whether he has to do with a
would-be joker or an imbecile.
“Say, who do you want to see?” he demanded.
“Why, Mr. Cabot--Mr. Augustus Cabot.”
“Mr. Cabot's away, I tell you. He's out of town.”
A tall, thin man of middle age, who had just emerged from one of the
private offices, paused beside them. He looked at Galusha through his
eyeglasses, and then held out his hand.
“Why, Bangs!” he exclaimed. “It IS Bangs, isn't it? Glad to see you.
Don't you know me? I'm Minor. How are you?”
Galusha remembered him, of course. Minor had been a young assistant
bookkeeper in those far-off and dismal days when he, Galusha, had
worked--or attempted to work--in that very office. That was--mercy, that
was a great many years ago! Minor had changed very much.
They shook hands and Galusha was invited to come into Mr. Minor's
private office.
“Let me see,” said the latter, “you are--you are--What is your business
now? I did hear, but I've forgotten.”
Galusha told of his connection with the National Institute.
“I do--ah--archaeological work,” he added. “Egyptology is my specialty.”
Minor nodded. “Yes, yes,” he said, doubtfully. “Just so.”
Plainly he regarded it as a weird sort of business.
“And you are still a--ah--banker?” queried Galusha.
“Yes. Very much so. I'm second vice president here now.”
“Dear me! dear me! You have been in this place ever since? Well, well!”
A pause, during which each regarded the other, trying not to show the
pity they felt. Then Minor asked if there was anything he could do for
his former associate. Galusha explained that he had come to town to
see his cousin, Mr. Augustus Cabot, on a business matter. Mr. Minor was
surprised, momentarily.
“That's so,” he said, “he is a relative of yours, isn't he? I had
forgotten.”
“Yes, yes, he is. He--ah--you see, he looks after things for
me--investments and--all that.”
“Humph! Well, if you wanted to see him personally, you're out of luck.
He is away out in the Sierras, somewhere. Been there for a month and he
won't come back till the doctors tell him he may. Goodness knows when
that will be.”
Cousin Gussie had, it appeared, suffered a severe nervous breakdown.
The physicians had ordered immediate dropping of business and business
cares.
“He must drop everything, they said, and cut, if he wanted to head off
something a good deal more serious. He must get out of doors and stay
there; go to bed early at night--instead of early in the morning, which
had been more in his line--and rough it generally.”
“Why--yes, yes, indeed. That was almost precisely what the doctors told
me I must do. Rest and--ah--good air, you know, and pleasant people. _I_
was very fortunate, really. I am at--ah--Gould's Bluffs, Cape Cod, you
know.”
“Yes? Well, he's away out in California or Nevada or thereabouts. His
secretary is with him--Thomas, the fellow he's had so many years; you
remember him. Thomas has gone along to see that the chief--Mr. Cabot,
I mean--doesn't get any business letters or wires or anything of that
sort. He looks out for those that do come, the personal matters.”
“Oh! Then perhaps my letter has been forwarded out there. That would
explain why I have received no answer. Yes, of course.”
“Sure! Thomas will write you by and by, no doubt. But now that you are
here, why don't you see Barbour? Barbour is in charge of the chief's
outside affairs while Thomas is away. That is, he is in charge of
everything that can be handled here. The most important stuff goes to
Thomas, of course. But come in and see Barbour. Perhaps he can tell you
what you want to know.”
Mr. Barbour was a bald-headed, worried-looking little man, who, in the
seclusion of a rear office, sat behind a big desk. Minor introduced
Galusha and Mr. Barbour extended a moist and flabby hand. Minor excused
himself and hastened out to the really important matters of life.
Galusha told Barbour the story of his letter to Cousin Gussie. He did
not tell what was in the letter, further than to say that it was an
inquiry concerning a certain investment security.
Barbour shook his head.
“Everything marked 'Personal' I forward to Thomas,” he said. “He'll
write you pretty soon, although I'm pretty sure he won't trouble the
chief with your question. Doctors are mighty strict about that. Nothing
we here can do to help, is there? Perhaps Mr. Minor might answer your
question.”
Galusha was thinking of Minor that very moment, but he shook his head.
Martha had asked that no one but Cousin Gussie be told of her trouble.
No, he would wait, at least until he heard from the secretary in the
West.
“Why, thank you, Mr. Barbour,” he said, rising. “I--I will wait, I
think.”
“All right, sir. Sorry, but you see how it is. Drop in again,
Mr.--er--Barnes. Barnes was the name, wasn't it?”
“Why, not exactly. My name is Bangs, but it really doesn't matter in
the least. Dear me, no. I am a relative of Mr. Cabot's. But that doesn't
matter either. Good-morning, Mr. Barbour.”
But it did seem to matter, after all. At any rate, Mr. Barbour for the
first time appeared actually interested.
“Eh?” he exclaimed. “Bangs? Oh, just a minute, Mr. Bangs. Just a minute,
if you please. Bangs? Why, are you--You're not the--er--professor?
Professor Ga--Ga--”
“Galusha. Yes, I am Galusha Bangs.”
“You don't mean it! Well, well, that's odd! I was planning to write you
to-day, Professor. Let me see, here's the memorandum now. We look after
your business affairs, I believe, Professor?”
Galusha nodded. He was anxious to get away. The significance of Cousin
Gussie's illness and absence and what those might mean to Martha Phipps
were beginning to dawn upon him. He wanted to get away and think. The
very last thing he wished to do was to discuss his own business affairs.
“Yes,” he admitted; “yes, you--ah--do. That is, Cousin Gussie--ah--Mr.
Cabot does. But, really, I--”
“I won't keep you but a moment, Professor. And what I'm going to tell
you is good news, at that. I presume it IS news; or have you heard of
the Tinplate melon?”
It was quite evident that Galusha had not heard. Nor, hearing now, did
the news convey anything to his mind.
“Melon?” he repeated. “Ah--melon, did you say?”
“Why, yes. The Tinplate people are--”
It was a rather long story, and telling it took longer than the minute
Mr. Barbour had requested. To Galusha it was all a tangled and most
uninteresting snarl of figures and stock quotations and references to
“preferred” and “common” and “new issues” and “rights.” He gathered
that, somehow or other, he was to have more money, money which was
coming to him because the “Tinplate crowd,” whoever they were, were to
do something or other that people like Barbour called “cutting a melon.”
“You understand, Professor?” asked Mr. Barbour, concluding his
explanation.
Galusha was at that moment endeavoring to fabricate a story of his own,
one which he might tell Miss Phipps. It must not be too discouraging, it
must--
“Eh?” he ejaculated, coming out of his daydream. “Oh, yes--yes, of
course.”
“As near as I can figure, your share will be well over twelve thousand.
A pretty nice little windfall, I should say. Now what shall I do with
it?”
“Yes.... Oh, I beg your pardon. Dear me, I am afraid I was not attending
as I should.”
“I say what shall I do with the check when it comes. That was what I
intended writing you to ask. Do you wish me to reinvest the money, or
shall I send the check to you?”
“Yes--ah--yes. If you will be so kind. You will excuse me, won't you,
but really I must hurry on. Thank you very much, Mr. Barbour.”
“But I don't quite understand which you wish me to do, Professor. Of
course, Thomas usually attends to all this--your affairs, I mean--but I
am trying not to trouble him unless it is absolutely necessary. Shall I
send the check direct to you, is that it?”
“Yes--yes, that will do very nicely. Thank you, Mr. Barbour.
Good-morning.”
He hurried out before Barbour could say any more. He cared nothing about
Tinplate melons or checks; in fact, he forgot them both almost before
he reached the street. But Martha Phipps--he had assured and reassured
Martha Phipps that Cousin Gussie would help her out of her financial
difficulties. And Cousin Gussie had not as yet learned of those
difficulties, nor, in all probability, would he be permitted ever to
learn of them.
Galusha Bangs' trip back to East Wellmouth was by no means a pleasure
excursion. What should he say to Martha? How could he be truthful and
yet continue to be encouraging? If he had not been so unreasonably
optimistic it would be easier, but he had never once admitted the
possibility of failure. And--no, he would not admit it now. Somehow and
in some way Martha's cares must be smoothed away. That he determined.
But what should he say to her now?
He was still asking himself that question when he turned in at the
Phipps' gate. And Fate so arranged matters that it was Primmie who heard
the gate latch click and Primmie who came flying down the path to meet
him.
“Mr. Bangs! Oh, Mr. Bangs!” she cried, breathlessly. “It's all right,
ain't it? It's all right?”
Galusha, startled, stared at her.
“Dear me, Primmie,” he observed. “How you do--ah--bounce at one, so to
speak. What is the matter?”
“Matter? I cal'late we both know what's the matter, but what _I_ want to
know is if it's goin' to keep ON bein' the matter. Is it all right? Have
you fixed it up?”
“Fixed what up? And PLEASE speak lower. Yes, and don't--ah--bounce, if
you don't mind.”
“I won't, honest I won't. But have you fixed up Miss Martha's trouble;
you and them Bancroft folks, I mean? Have you, Mr. Bangs?”
“Bancroft folks?... How did you know I--”
“I seen it, of course. 'Twas in that note you left on the table.”
“Note? Why, Primmie, that note was for Miss Phipps. Why did you read
it?”
“Why wouldn't I read it? There 'twas laid out on the table when I came
down to poke up the fire and set the kettle on. There wasn't no name on
it, so 'twan't till I'd read it clear through that I knew 'twas for Miss
Martha. It said: 'Have gone to Boston to see--er--what's-his-name and
Somebody-else and--' Never mind, Bancroft's all I remember, anyhow. But
it said you'd gone to them folks to see about 'stock matter.' Well, then
I knew 'twas for Miss Martha. _I_ didn't have no stock matters for folks
to see about. My savin' soul, no! And then you said, 'Hope to settle
everything and have good news when I come back.' I remember THAT all
right.... Oh, Mr. Bangs, have you settled it? HAVE you got good news for
her?”
By this time she had forgotten all about the request to speak in a low
tone. Galusha glanced fearfully at the open door behind her.
“Sshh! shh, Primmie,” he begged.
“But have you? Have you, Mr. Bangs?”
“Why--why, perhaps, Primmie. I mean--that is to say--”
He stopped. Miss Phipps was standing in the doorway.
“Why, Mr. Bangs!” she exclaimed. “Are you here so soon? I didn't expect
you till to-night. What are you standin' out there in the cold for? Come
in, come in!”
And then Primmie, to make use of the expressive idiom of her friend, the
driver of the grocery cart, Primmie “spilled the beans.” She turned, saw
her mistress, and ran toward her, waving both hands.
“Oh, Miss Martha!” she cried, “he--he's done it. He says it's all right.
He does! he does!”
“Primmie!”
“He says he's been to them--them Bancroft what's-his-name folks and he's
got the good news for you. Oh, ain't it elegant! Ain't it!”
This wild perversion of his guarded statement took Galusha completely
by surprise. He started forward aghast. And then he saw Martha Phipps'
face. Upon it were written such hope and relief and joy that the words
of expostulation and protest remained unspoken. And it was Martha who
spoke first.
“Oh, Mr. Bangs!” she gasped. “Oh, Mr. Bangs!”
Galusha's chin quivered. His face became very red.
“Why--why--why, Miss Martha, I--I--”
His agitation caused his teeth actually to chatter. Martha noticed the
chatter and misinterpreted the cause.
“Mercy me!” she cried. “You're standin' out there and freezin' to death.
Of course you are. Come right in! Primmie, open those stove dampers.
Put the kettle on front where it will boil quick.... No, Mr. Bangs, you
mustn't tell me a word until you're warm and rested. You would like to
go to your room, wouldn't you? Certainly you would. Primmie will bring
you hot water as soon as it's ready. No, don't try to tell me a word
until after you are rested and washed up.”
It was a welcome suggestion, not because Galusha was so eager to “wash
up,” but because he was eager, very eager, to be alone where no one
could ask more embarrassing questions. Yet the last thing he saw as he
closed his room door was the expression upon Miss Phipps' face. Hope,
relief, happiness! And what he had to tell would change them all.
Oh, if he had not been so foolishly optimistic! What should he say? If
he told the exact truth--the whole truth--
But there, what was the whole truth? After all, he did not KNOW that
nothing would come of his letter to Cousin Gussie. Something might
come of it. Yes, even something very good might come. If Cousin Gussie
himself never saw the letter, Thomas, the secretary, would see it and
very likely he would write encouragingly. He might--it was quite
likely that he would--give the names of other Boston financiers to whom
Wellmouth Development might be of interest. In this case, or even
the probability of such a case, he, Galusha, would certainly not be
justified in making his story too discouraging.
When, at last, he did descend to the sitting room, where Miss Phipps was
awaiting him, the tale he told her bore very little resemblance to the
hopeless, despairful narrative he had, while on the way down in the
train, considered inevitable and the telling of which he had so dreaded.
In fact, when it was finished Martha's expression had changed but
little. She still looked happy.
She drew a long breath. “Well!” she exclaimed, “I can hardly believe it;
it seems almost too good to believe. And so that secretary man told you
that he felt sure that your cousin, or his other secretary--how many
secretaries does one man have to have, for mercy sakes?--would attend to
the Development thing and it would be all right if we would just wait a
little longer? Was that it?”
Galusha, who, in his intense desire not to be discouraging, had not
until now realized how far he had gone in the other direction, blinked
and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.
“That was it, wasn't it?” repeated Martha.
“Why--why--ah--yes, about that, as--ah--one might say. Yes.”
It was the first lie Galusha Bangs had told for many, many years, one of
the very few he had ever told. It was a very white lie and not told with
deliberation or malice aforethought. But, as so often happens, it was
destined to be the father of a pestilential pack which were neither
white nor unintentional.