while they are cooking the rest. Mock turtle soup, and then filets of
sole; they are mock, too, but they are very good. Then bring me some of
that chicken pasty. Yes, you can call it _vol-au-vent_ if you like, but
don't stick me extra for the name; I would just as lief eat it in
English. Then I want half a black duck. Tell the cook it is for me, and
I don't want coot. After that I'll decide as to the next course. Bring
me a half bottle of Mumm, and a long glass with chopped ice in it, and
bring that right away. Oh! by the way," he called, as the waiter was
starting off with the order, "find out at the desk how the game came
out. Gad, I'd nearly forgotten it!"
"Why, sir," replied the waiter, "haven't you heard? Too bad. Six to
four. Yale made a touch-down in the last five minutes, and kicked a goal
from it."
"Wha-at!" exclaimed Jack. "Hi! waiter! Hold on a minute; come back here!
Make that order one English chop and a mug of musty."
THE WAKING NIGHTMARE OF HOLLIS HOLWORTHY.
Holworthy had accepted an invitation to dine at the Tremonts' in Boston.
There was nothing remarkable about that; but so had Jack Rattleton, and
that _was_ remarkable. He had done so chiefly on Holworthy's account. He
rarely went anywhere in Boston society, as he held that to do so was a
waste of precious time given to him for a college education. He could
employ his evenings much better in Cambridge in his study, with a select
party, or in one of the clubs. True, he often went over the bridge; but
that, as he said, was always with some earnest purpose, such as a study
of the drama at the Howard Athenaeum, or to attend a benefit of Prof.
Murphy or some other revered instructor. He never frittered away his
moments in the vapidity of a polite ballroom. Dinners he especially
abhorred (except, of course, serious masculine dinners); chiefly because
dinner engagements had to be kept, and worse, kept punctually. For that
reason they were, in Jack's estimation, as bad as lectures to a man on
probation. He had decided to bind himself to this dinner, however,
because he knew the Tremonts very well, and happened to know they were
going to invite Holworthy, and also happened to know that some one else
was going to be thereabout whom Holworthy did not like to be chaffed. He
foresaw a possible opportunity of "seeing Hol do the devoted and
breaking him up"; so for this benevolent purpose he determined to
sacrifice himself.
Now, Holworthy knew naught of this, and when Rattleton casually
mentioned to him that he (Jack) had been bidden to a dinner at the
Tremonts', and asked him for the most approved form for a lying regret,
he used all his powers of persuasion to make Rattleton accept. He
preached a sermon on the evil effects of Jack's Bohemian ways and
neglected opportunities. He said he was going to that same dinner and
would bring Jack back in a cab. Finally, after much objection, and after
getting as many bribes out of his mentor as possible, Rattleton agreed
to go, and also agreed to do his best not to be late.
On this latter point Hollis spent half an hour. He insisted, and
impressed upon Jack in every way, that a man could do nothing more
outrageous than to keep his hostess waiting for him for dinner.
Holworthy, it may be observed, had been brought up with old-fashioned
ideas of good breeding. His father had taught him never to fail, or be
late at a dinner or a duel, if once engaged for either. He cautioned
Rattleton not to put his faith in excuses, for they were always weak and
as naught. "Everybody," said he, "knows you are lying, and you know that
they know you are lying, and they know that you know that they know you
are lying."
"That's so," acknowledged Jack, with a melancholy shake of his head. "At
one time, when I went in for these vanities, I used to have some pretty
good excuses, but they are all played out now. I have broken down every
cab in Cambridge, given every horse the blind staggers, and ruined the
reputation for sobriety of every driver. I have broken my own leg once
or twice, and limped painfully into the room; that was very effective,
until I once favored the wrong leg. The electric cars were a great help
when they first came in, but I have long since dislocated every trolly
on the line."
"Well, above all," said Holworthy, "if you _should_ happen to be late,
don't try that worn out chestnut about the drawbridge being open, as I
heard a poor young Freshman do the other night, with a happy
confidence."
"Do you take _me_ for a Freshman?" responded Jack, indignantly. "At the
first dinner I went to when I first came up, I started to use the
drawbridge, and the old grad. with whom I was dining took the words out
of my mouth and then laughed at me."
"The best thing for you to do," suggested Hollis, as his final advice,
"is to get a chain and make yourself fast to your bedstead from now
until the evening of the dinner. I'll come round and unchain you when it
is time to dress. At any rate, I shall endeavor to keep you in sight all
that day." All of which Rattleton took humbly, and promised to do his
best.
But on the afternoon of the appointed day Jack was not to be found.
Holworthy hunted in vain for him at all his usual haunts, and in the
evening began dressing himself with many misgivings. While he was still
in his room, his chum Charles Rivers came in from the afternoon's work
in the University boat. Holworthy complained to him of the way in which
the man Rattleton was turning his hair gray.
"Looking for Lazy Jack, are you?" laughed Rivers, reassuringly; "well,
he was in a four-oar above the Brighton Abattoir not very long ago. I
couldn't see him, because I had to keep my eyes in the boat, but I could
hear him objurgating Steve Hudson for hitting up the stroke. We passed
them as we were pulling back from Watertown. It wasn't half an hour
ago."
Holworthy made a short remark about Rattleton that has nothing to do
with the story. "I have only just time to get into the Tremonts' now,"
said he, as he threw on his cloak, "but I will stop at the shiftless
beggar's room before I go in. He may possibly have got back and
dressed."
He hurried along Harvard Street, and on the corner ran into a lot of men
coming up from the river. Sauntering along in their flannels, perfectly
happy after the glorious exercise and bath, he saw Hudson, Randolph,
Stoughton,--and the long form of Mr. Rattleton, quite as usual, hands in
his pockets, head thrown back, a smile on his face, content in his soul,
and nothing on his mind. There was a sudden change in his aspect,
however, when he caught sight of Holworthy's silk hat and white tie. He
stopped, aghast, with a "By Jove!" and then, "Oh, the devil!"
"Yes," exclaimed Holworthy, hotly, "and that is just where you will go
some day from sheer carelessness. That is the one appointment you'll
keep,--though, I believe, you will be late for your own funeral."
"Don't wait for me, old man. I'll be there as soon as I can," answered
Jack, ambiguously.
"Wait for you!" Hollis cried, "I wash my hands of you! If you choose to
disgrace yourself, it is none of my business. As it is now, I may be
late myself," and he boarded a car for Boston.
Now it was so that Holworthy did not know the Tremonts. They were old
friends of his family, and he ought to have called on them when he first
came to college; but he had not, and they had been abroad since his
Freshman year. He was not even perfectly certain of where they lived,
and he had forgotten, in his hurry on leaving his room, to look at the
address on the invitation! He thought of this fact when he was over the
bridge and well into Boston. However, he pretty clearly remembered
having sent his acceptance to 142 Marconwealth Street. It was either 142
or 242; but to make sure he decided to look it up in a Blue Book. He,
therefore, got out at Park Square and went into a druggist's, to consult
the little directory.
He first looked up 142 Marconwealth Street, and found the name of Jones.
Then he looked for 242, 342, 442,--he felt there was a 42 in the
combination somehow,--but all were vacant of Tremonts. He tried the 42's
of other streets, but in vain. Then, in desperation, he ran down the
whole list of Tremonts. Reader, dost thou know aught of the ancient town
of Boston? If not, look some time into a Boston Blue Book, open
anywhere, and see what Holworthy saw. In Boston, when they want to
describe a particularly luxuriant forest, they say that its leaves are
as the Tremonts. Hollis was not even sure of the first name of his
intended host; he thought it was Mayflor. There were three Mayflor
Tremonts on Marconwealth Street, one at each end and one in the middle.
Of other Tremonts on that street there were fourteen.
The cold sweat stood on Holworthy's brow in the most approved style. It
was already half past seven, the hour of dinner, for he had spent
several minutes in his Blue Book research. Only one plan occurred to
him. He bought the book at an extravagant price and jumped into a cab,
determined to hunt down that dinner if he had to go to every Tremont in
Boston. He began with the Mayflor Tremonts. When the servant answered
the bell, he would ask if there was a dinner-party going on in that
house. He was not sure whether he was taken for a lunatic or a society
reporter, but did not care which. None of the Mayflor Tremonts were
giving dinners on that evening. Then he began at one end of Marconwealth
Street, and tried every Tremont in order.
All this time the minutes were joining the past eternity, and he, Hollis
Holworthy, was getting later and later for dinner. At the sixth house,
however, as a maid opened the door, he heard the sounds of gentle
revelry and small talk, and his heart leaped for joy. The maid said,
"Yes, we have a party here to-night." He rushed back and paid for his
cab, not stopping for the paltry change due him, amounting to half that
he gave. He left his coat and hat in the hall to save time and, without
asking further questions, strode by the maid into the dining-room. He
was twenty-five minutes late, and glad they had not waited for him.
Going up to the hostess, he began, "Mrs. Tremont, I can't tell you how
mortified--" the table was filled! There was no vacant chair! Then he
noticed that the hostess was looking a little blank, though smiling and
polite. "I beg your pardon," he said, as his heart sank, "have I made
some awful mistake? My name is Holworthy; did you not invite me to
dinner this evening, or have I got the wrong house?--or the wrong
night?"
"I am afraid you _have_ made a mistake, Mr. Holworthy," replied the
lady, "and I think it must be in the house."
"Well, can you tell me," asked the blushing and desperate youth, trying
to keep a groan out of his question, "whether you happen to know of any
other Mrs. Tremont who is giving a dinner to-night? I have lost the
address, and I am dinnerless in the streets of Boston."
The hostess laughed a little at Holworthy's despair, but relieved him by
saying that her cousin, Mrs. Mayflor Tremont, had said something that
day about a dinner.
"But I have been to the houses of three Mrs. Mayflor Tremonts on this
street," protested poor Hollis. "Is there another one?"
"Why, Hol," spoke up Ernest Gray, an intimate friend, who was present to
Holworthy's great comfort, "that is where Jack Rattleton told me that
you and he were going--the Mayflor Tremont's, 142 Marconwealth Street."
"That is just what I thought," said Holworthy, "but the Blue Book gives
one Jones at 142."
"Oh!" explained Mrs. Tremont, "they have only just moved in, and their
name has not been changed in the Blue Book."
"Then _that_ was my ruin," Hollis exclaimed. "Thank you very much,
indeed. I hope you will forgive me for making such a scene," and he
retreated with as much dignity and haste as could be combined. He was
too much relieved to mind Gray's remark, "That is one on you, Hol," or
the laugh that he heard as he got to the front door.
His cab had only moved to the corner, and he hailed it again. The driver
repaid his recent generosity by getting him to 142 in less than three
minutes.
Let us now see how it fared with Jack, the grasshopper. At the moment
when Holworthy took the car in Harvard Square, there was seen a rare
phenomenon of nature;--Rattleton showed acute animation. He went up
Harvard Street with two leaps to a block. Riley's cab, as usual, was
standing at the corner of Holyoke Street, and as Jack dashed by, he
yelled for Riley. The latter came tumbling out of Foster's, and, in
forty-three seconds and two fifths, had his chariot at the door of
Rattleton's staircase. Both Riley and his horse are as well drilled to
emergencies as are the men and steeds of a fire-engine. Jack reached his
room in record time, and only stopped to wash his face and hands. He
grabbed his evening clothes and shoes, a "boiled" shirt and tie, and was
in the cab almost as soon as it got to the door.
"Riley," said he, "get me to 142 Marconwealth Street before Mr.
Holworthy, and I'll try and pay what I owe you this week. It is a matter
of life and death, and I expect you this day to do your duty. Don't be
beaten by an electric car."
The latter part of this exhortation had its effect. Riley follows the
Golden Rule and never duns anybody, but his weak spots are his
professional pride and his sporting blood. Touch him there, and you will
travel in his cab as in the car of Phoebus. He has never lost the day
when it was possible for man and horse to save it. Ned Burleigh used to
say that he would back Riley's nag against Salvator, provided the former
should have behind him the cab, Riley, and a load. On this particular
occasion he fully maintained his reputation.
While rushing towards Boston, Rattleton proceeded to dress. He at first
complimented himself on not having forgotten anything; but, when he came
to his shirt, behold, there were no studs! He had been wearing a soft
cheviot, and had only a collar button. The absence of sleeve buttons
would probably not be noticed, but he could not go to dinner with a
studless chest. For a minute he thought the game was up, wrecked by such
a little thing. Then an inspiration came to him. With his knife he cut
three little pearl buttons out of his under-shirt, leaving a piece
attached to each button. These he pushed through his shirt, and they
were held in place by the pieces of flannel at their backs. It had
always been suspected by his friends that Jack Rattleton really had
brains, though he never made the exertion to use them. It had even been
said that some time in an emergency he might show positive genius. He
looked at those improvised studs with satisfaction, as he reasoned to
himself that they would be taken for imitation buttons and, therefore,
go unnoticed. If they should be recognized as real, that would be all
the better; it would look like a new fashion, and one of most "swagger"
simplicity. He tied his cravat all right by feeling; but he had not
thought of a hair-brush, and his hair was all damp and on end after his
shower-bath at the boat-house. This did not trouble him, however, as he
was sure of finding a brush at the Tremonts, in the room where the men
would leave their coats.
He had hardly finished this flying toilet when he arrived at the house,
not two minutes late. He instructed Riley to come back at ten, and that
the return trip would be "on Mr. Holworthy." In the dressing-room there
were hair-brushes, as he had expected, and he went down to the
drawing-room in faultless order, feeling that he had made a great
discovery. Undoubtedly a cab was just the place for a hurried man of
business, like himself, to dress.
He called the attention of his hostess to his punctuality, and assured
her that such a thing in him was a sign of the greatest devotion. "You
see," said he, "when I am late, everyone says, 'Oh, it is only that
shiftless Jack Rattleton,' and when I am on time, I want the credit for
it. Now it is nothing particularly praiseworthy for a man like Holworthy
to be on time. If he should ever slip up, it might well be put down as
an insult, because he never forgets or dawdles. Some day his good
reputation will be the ruin of him. I think my system is the better."
After which airy persiflage, Rattleton noticed that Holworthy was not in
the room; and ten minutes later, when the latter was still absent, he
began to wish he had let airy persiflage alone. Everybody else had
arrived. Five minutes more went by, and when twenty minutes were gone
and no Holworthy, Jack went to Mrs. Tremont and told her how Hollis had
left Cambridge in plenty of time, and, in fact, had refused to wait for
him. "Something must have happened to him," he said, rather anxiously,
"and I am prepared to back up as strictly true any excuse he may offer,
for I can swear he left Cambridge more than an hour ago, and was coming
right here."
"No accident to himself, I hope," replied Mrs. Tremont. "At any rate, I
think we had better go in, as I am sure Mr. Holworthy will feel more
comfortable if we do not wait for him."
So in they went, Rattleton taking her whom Holworthy should have taken,
for Jack was one of two extra men.
And Hollis, where was he? Suffering in the cab.
Ten minutes later, as he went up the stoop of 142, an insidious policy
stole into Holworthy's brain. He had lost the invitation and mistaken
the number of the house,--why should he not have mistaken instead the
hour of dinner? Was that not better than to be ignorant of the address
of his hostess, upon whom he ought to have called long before this? He
was in good time for an eight o'clock dinner, and most dinners are at
eight nowadays. Then, too, Rattleton would be just about half an hour
late, and would probably be utterly unconcerned about it, and offer no
excuses. That would lend color to a suspicion that Mrs. Tremont had
herself made the mistake, in writing some of the invitations. He would
not need to tell any actual untruth--to say distinctly that he thought
dinner was at eight. He need only imply it, and apologize for his
evident mistake. It would be a pretty poor plea for a very bad crime,
but at any rate it was a more polite explanation than the real one, and
less ridiculous. Oh, Hollis Holworthy, that thou shouldst thus forget
the _veritas_, the watchword of thine Alma Mater!
In the dressing-room was a straw hat with a colored ribbon. "Hullo," he
surmised, "Jack is here. Wonder if the rest of his outfit corresponds,
and he has come in his blazer." As he went into the dining-room, his eye
first lighted on that interesting person whom Mr. Davis has capitally
termed "A Girl He Knew." On her right was Rattleton, on her left a
vacant chair. She must have had to go in alone!
With a look of gentle surprise and concern, that, he flattered himself,
was rather well done, he went up and saluted Mrs. Tremont.
"Have I been mistaken," he asked, "in thinking that dinner was at eight
o'clock, or has my watch betrayed me?" There was no fib in this and what
could be more diplomatic?
Mrs. Tremont stood it for a second, then she happened to catch sight of
Rattleton's face. It was too much for her, and she burst out laughing.
After all, it was the best thing to do.
"Now, Mr. Holworthy, tell us what really happened, and we will believe
and forgive you. Jack, here, has testified to the time of your departure
from Cambridge, and you must fill in the interim somehow."
Then Hollis made a clean breast of the whole thing, and made the tale of
his sufferings as moving as possible, finishing with a request for some
dust to put on his head. He was so humble that even Rattleton was sorry
for him; but the memory of many of Holworthy's lectures came to Jack and
he could not resist suggesting to Mrs. Tremont, as Hollis took his seat,
that as Holly's blood had run so cold she ought to have some soup warmed
up for him.
That evening, on the way back to Cambridge in the cab, was spent one of
the pleasantest half hours of Rattleton's life. He told Holworthy how a
man could do nothing more outrageous than to keep his hostess waiting
for dinner. He said he had a very good chain that he used for his dog
Blathers, but which he could lend Hollis. He warned him some day that he
would surely go to the devil by his careless habits. "Above all," said
he, "never put your faith in excuses. Everybody knows you are lying, and
even if you don't know that they know, etc., you sometimes find out."
Holworthy smoked his cigar vigorously without saying a word in reply.
When they arrived at their club in Cambridge he asked, resignedly,
"Well, what do you want for supper?"
"I know I ought to take champagne," answered Jack, graciously, "but as
you are so very humble and I don't really want any more fizz, I will let
you off with a rarebit and beer. But don't you ever jump on me again."
THE PLOT AGAINST BULLAM.
Something had to be done about the case of Sergeant Bullam. For years he
had ruled his beat with a rod of iron. Many a noble spirit had fallen a
prey to his desire for notoriety and promotion. The slightest offence,
the most innocent or technical infringement of the law, was sufficient
pretext for him to indulge his thirst for student incarceration. The
_lettres de cachet_ and the Bastile were nothing to Bullam and the
Cambridge jail. In the dark days when the ungrateful University town
went prohibition, the tyrant had revelled in his opportunities. He had
raided several of the club-houses and had charged Hollis Holworthy, the
president of one of the clubs, with keeping a liquor nuisance. Of course
this little joke on the superb Holworthy had exceedingly pleased all his
friends; but it did not excuse Bullam. There had been isolated attempts
at resistance and vengeance, and these had sometimes been successful,
but never yet had Bullam suffered any great public downfall worthy of
his oppression. He was wary to a high degree, and never ventured into
the sacred Yard, where his uniform would have been only blue cloth and
his buttons common brass.
The crafty Stoughton, however, had a scheme. He had been pondering over
the case for some time, and Dick rarely pondered for nothing. He was
known to his intimates as Machiavelli, called Mac the Dago for short.
This particular plan was indeed worthy of his great namesake. He
imparted it to Jack Randolph, who had the heaviest personal score
against Bullam, and, therefore, the best title to share in his
humiliation. They fixed the following night as Bullam's Ides and
announced it to all their friends. They posted it in all the clubs, and
in every way spread the glad tidings that on the morrow Bullam should be
utterly cast down. They fixed the hour at about ten o'clock in the
evening, and exhorted the people to gather themselves together in a
great concourse to see their enemy made a cause of laughter unto them.
The promise of the avenging prophets was to conduct a triumph along the
whole length of Harvard Street and to lead in their train the haughty
Bullam, humbled and a captive; he should even act as their body-guard if
they so chose, and prevent all interference by his brothers of the
force. How this millennial spectacle was to be brought about, they kept
carefully secret.
There is, perhaps, in every man a certain element of moral obliquity,
which, as he is put through any civilizing process, is squeezed out of
him from time to time in varying forms and quantities. It comes to the
surface, makes itself acutely felt and apparent for a short time, and
then drops off,--just as a physical poison would act in his veins. At
any rate, this is the only theory that can explain the highly
reprehensible but firmly established custom among Harvard Freshmen of
"ragging" signs. "Ragging," uninitiated reader, simply means stealing.
What amusement, profit, or glory the Freshman finds in it has never been
ascertained. He cannot tell exactly himself, and, as soon as he ceases
to be a Freshman, wonders why he ever indulged in the habit. Perhaps the
charm lies in the chance of getting into a scrape; but in most instances
a sign can be taken with perfect safety. Now I cannot possibly think why
I--but that is another story, as Mr. Kipling says.
I am going to digress, however, for one story in this connection. Ned
Burleigh used to tell it on his room-mate, Steve Hudson. Steve always
denied it vehemently, and declared that Burleigh did not even deserve
the credit of a fabricator; that the story had been in college for
years, and he had heard it told by a '42 man. Ned held that made no
difference; that some one had to carry it for our four years and Steve
was the best man for the position. According to him, Hudson, in walking
back from Boston on a dark night in Freshman year, spied a tempting sign
hanging on a door-post. He secured it by some difficult climbing, and
tucking it under his overcoat, went on his way. On arriving in his room
he announced that he had a prize, and, unbuttoning his coat, he
displayed to Burleigh's delighted gaze, his only evening suit and the
sign "Fresh Paint."