Happily for her peace of mind the day opened briskly. She had disposed
of a rapid succession of customers before Irene, who had arrived late,
passed her in the salesroom with a careless nod and smile. At half-past
nine Grace espied John Moore, the unwitting cause of the exposure of
her truancy from the French class, standing in the entrance. So many
other thoughts had filled her mind since she left the breakfast table
that she had forgotten about Moore and the football game. She was
carrying a gown she had just sold flung over her arm when the sight
of the young man, who was clearly dismayed by the unfamiliar scene,
brought a smile to her face. He sprang forward beaming when he caught
sight of her.
“I was just about to run; I’m scared to death!” he exclaimed.
In his joy at finding her he dropped his hat as he grasped her hand. He
was big of frame but trained fine, and the deep tan of his summer on
a Kansas farm had not yet worn off. His gray suit was only saved from
shabbiness by a recent careful pressing. His lean cheeks were neatly
shaven and his thick brown hair was evenly parted and smoothly brushed,
though a wisp of it persisted in slipping down over his forehead.
Twenty-seven or thereabouts, John Barton Moore--as he was written on
the university books--seemed older with the maturity of one who begins
early to plan and fashion his life.
“I’m awfully glad to see you, John!” she cried. “Up for the game,
of course! I was terribly sorry not to be home when you called. The
trouble was that I cut my French lesson at the last minute to go to a
party.”
“Perfectly all right, Grace. I ought to have written you a note to say
I was coming up.”
He glanced about anxiously. “Am I blocking the wheels of commerce?”
he asked with the drawl that proclaimed him one of those children of
Indiana whose ancestors reached the Wabash country by way of North
Carolina and Kentucky.
“Nothing like that! Just a minute till I send this dress to be packed.”
She motioned him to a chair but he remained standing like a soldier at
attention till she came back.
“Now then! Let’s proceed to business.”
“Well, I. U. needs all her children to root this afternoon, though I
think we’re going to win. And you’ve got to go. Got good seats and
everything’s all set.”
“Why, John, I’m afraid I can’t go. Saturdays are busy days here. I
don’t like to ask to get off.”
“Oh, you can fix it somehow. And besides I want to talk. I’ve got about
a million things to tell you. You left in such a hurry I didn’t know
you were gone till Roy told me the next day. I’ve certainly missed our
talks.”
“Well, we’ll have some more; I’m starving for a talk with you!”
“Well, this is a fearsome place and I mustn’t keep you. So please see
your boss and tell him or her this is a matter of life and death.”
At this moment Irene swept by with a valued customer and Grace appealed
to her.
“Miss Kirby, Mr. Moore. Irene, Mr. Moore is an old friend of mine from
I. U. and he wants me to go to the game. Would I be shot if I asked to
get off?”
Irene surveyed Moore carefully and weighed the question for an instant.
“What do I get if I fix it?” she asked, giving the young man the
benefit of her handsome eyes.
“I might offer a bushel of hickory-nuts,” said Moore. “I counted a lot
on seeing the game with Grace.”
“I think,” said Irene with mock gravity, “I _think_ it can be arranged.
Miss Boardman sent word this morning that she’s ill and won’t be down,
so I’m in charge. We’re likely to have a busy afternoon, but you run
along, Grace.”
“Well, that’s mighty nice of you, Miss Kirby”; and Moore thrust out his
hand. It was evidently his habit to express all manner of emotion with
a handshake. He was regarding Irene with a frank curiosity manifest in
his steady gray eyes. The grand manner of the Irenes of the world, one
would have assumed, was new to him.
“I wish you could go along too,” he said. “It’s likely to be a lively
scrap. If you say the word, Miss Kirby, I’ll get another seat right
away.”
“Oh, thank you so much! But with Miss Boardman away it can’t be done.
It’s nice of you to ask me though.”
If she was to him a puzzling type, alien to all his experience, he
was equally of an unfamiliar species to her. Grace noted with secret
amusement the interest they apparently awakened in each other.
“Excuse me; I must run along,” said Irene. “Have a good time!” She left
them with her queenliest air.
“I told you it could be fixed all right,” said Moore. “Fine girl; Miss
Kirby.”
“It was mighty nice of her to do it. I’d hardly have had the nerve to
tackle Miss Boardman.”
“Well, I mustn’t keep you. There’s lots of folks on the streets. Looks
like the whole of the grand old Hoosier State was in town. Where can I
meet you?”
“At the main entrance of this emporium at one o’clock. You get your
lunch first and I’ll snatch something in the tea room. We’ll want to
get out early to see the crowd gather. I’m that thrilled, John!”
Grace greeted her next customer with a smile that was not wholly
inspired by the hope of making a substantial sale. John had been one
of her best friends at the university, where every one knew and liked
him. Even the governor of the State knew Moore and referred to him
indirectly in public addresses as a justification for taxing the people
to place higher education within reach of the humblest.
Moore was born on a farm and his parents dying just as he finished the
common schools, he had worked his way through college, doing chores
during the school terms and spending his vacations on farms wherever
employment offered. In like fashion he was now plodding his way through
the law school. His good humor was unfailing and his drolleries were
much quoted in the university town. When urged in his undergraduate
days to take up football he pleaded important engagements, not
scrupling to explain that they were the most solemn pledges to saw wood
or cut grass for his clients or drive the truck on Saturdays for a
grocer. He called his employers his noble patrons and praised them for
their consideration and generosity. He enjoyed music, and possessing a
good baritone voice he had been enrolled in the glee club. He never
had danced until, in his senior year, a number of co-eds conspired to
instruct him. He was the star performer of the debating society and
had several times represented the university in the contests of the
Inter-State Association.
Though she had so quickly overcome her disappointment at leaving the
University, Grace found that the sight of Moore awoke in her a keen
regret that her college days were over. She was far less sure of
herself than she had been before her evening at The Shack. She clutched
at memories of her happy care-free yesterdays. A band in the street
was playing the air of the college song, which was punctuated by the
familiar yell from the throats of a mighty phalanx of undergraduates.
Young women from all the state colleges were coming into the store for
hurried purchases. Two members of her sorority, girls she had lived
with for two years, dropped in to see her--cheery, hopeful young women,
eagerly flinging at her scraps of college news and giving a sharper
edge to her homesickness for the campus and all it connoted. She was
beset with serious doubts as to her fitness to meet the problems of
life; the conceit was gone out of her. She recalled what a lecturer had
once said at a student’s convocation, that the great commonwealth of
Indiana stood behind them, eager to serve them, to put them in the way
of realizing the abundant promise of life. In her mood of contrition
she reflected that not only had the arm of the State been withdrawn,
but that she had gone far toward estranging those to whom she was bound
by the closest ties, who had every right to expect the best of her. If
it had been in her power she would have elected to join the throng of
young men and women who, victor or vanquished, would go back to the
university that night singing songs which echoed in her memory now and
made a continuing little ache in her heart.
Moore’s pride in her was manifest as he hung to a strap and bent over
her in the crowded street-car on the way to the battlefield. Grace
was a pretty girl, and John was not unmindful of the fact that she
attracted attention. He talked steadily--of university affairs, of
their friends among the students.
“Did Roy come up?” she asked.
“I haven’t seen him. He may have come up with the bunch this morning.
But you might overlook the king of England in this crowd.”
“Roy’s not terribly enthusiastic about the law,” she suggested
leadingly.
“Well, maybe not just what you’ll call crazy about it; but he’ll come
along all right. There’s good stuff in Roy.”
Moore was usually so candid that his equivocal answer did not escape
her. Grace had the greatest misgivings as to her brother’s future. He
had wanted to leave the university when she was summoned home. He had
won his A. B. by the narrowest margin and had gone into the law school
only because of his mother’s obsession that he was destined to a career
similar to that of her father and grandfather, whose attainments at
the bar and services to the State provided what Mrs. Durland called a
background for her children.