The next news came the next day. Oscawanna had been famished for a sight
of the world-sweeping dances. It turned out in multitudes to see the
famous Carthage queen in the new steps. The opera-house there had not
held such a crowd since William J. Bryan spoke there--the time he did
not charge admission. According to the Oscawanna _Eagle_: "This
enterprising city paid one thousand dollars to see Peerless Prue
Pepperall dance with her partner Otto Hipkinson. What you got to say
about that, ye scribes of Carthage?"
Like the corpse in Ben King's poem, Judge Hippisley sat up at the news
and said: "What's that?" And when the figures were repeated he "dropped
dead again."
The next day word was received that Perkinsville, jealous of Oscawanna,
had shoveled twelve hundred dollars into the drug-store where tickets
were sold. Two sick people had nearly died because they couldn't get
their prescriptions filled for twelve hours, and the mayor of the town
had had to go behind the counter and pick out his own stomach bitters.
The Athens theater had been sold out so quickly that the town hall was
engaged for a special matinee. Athens paid about fifteen hundred
dollars. The Athenians had never suspected that there was so much money
in town. People who had not paid a bill for months managed to dig up
cash for tickets.
Indignant Oscawanna wired for a return engagement, so that those who had
been crowded out could see the epoch-making dances. Those who had seen
them wanted to see them again. In the mornings Prue gave lessons to
select classes at auction prices.
Wonderful as this was, unbelievable, indeed, to Carthage, it was not
surprising. This blue and lonely dispeptic world has always been ready
to enrich the lucky being that can tempt its palate with something it
wants and didn't know it wanted. Other people were leaping from poverty
to wealth all over the world for teaching the world to dance again. Prue
caught the crest of the wave that overswept a neglected region.
The influence of her success on her people and her neighbors was bound
to be overwhelming. The judge modulated from a contemptuous allusion to
"that Pepperall cat" to "my daughter-in-law." Prue's father, who had
never watched her dance, had refused to collaborate even that far in her
ruination, could not continue to believe that she was entirely lost
when she was so conspicuously found.
Perhaps he was right. Perhaps the world is so wholesome and so well
balanced that nobody ever attained enormous prosperity without some
excuse for it. People who contribute the beauty, laughter, thrills, and
rhythm to the world may do as much to make life livable as people who
invent electric lights and telephones and automobiles. Why should they
not be paid handsomely?
Prue, the impossible, unimaginable Prue, triumphed home safely with
several thousands of dollars in her satchel. Orton bought a revolver to
guard it with, and nearly shot one of his priceless feet off with it.
They dumped the money upon the shelf of the banker who had refused to
lend Prue five hundred dollars. He had to raise the steel grating to get
the bundle in. The receiving teller almost fainted and had to count it
twice.
Clint Sprague alone was disconsolate. He had refused to risk Prue's
expenses, had forced her to take the lioness's share of the actual costs
and the imaginary profits. He almost wept over what he might have had,
despising what he had.
Prue ought to have been a wreck; but there is no stimulant like success.
In a boat-race the winning crew never collapses. Prue's mother begged
her to rest; her doctor warned her that she would drop dead. But she
smiled, "If I can die dancing it won't be so bad."
Even more maddeningly joyful than the dancing now was the rhapsody of
income. To be both Salome and Hetty Green! Mr. Dolge figured out her
income. At any reasonable rate of interest it represented a capital far
bigger than Tawm Kinch's mythical hundred thousand. Mr. Dolge said to
William Pepperall:
"Bill, your daughter is the richest man in town. Any time you want to
borrow a little money, get her name on your note and I'll be glad to let
you have it."
Somehow his little pleasantry brought no smile to William's face. He
snapped:
"You mind your own business and I'll mind mine."
"Oh, I suppose you don't have to borrow it," Dolge purred; "she just
gives it to you."
William almost wept at this humiliation.
Prue bought out Jake Meyer's restaurant. She spent a thousand dollars on
its decoration. She consoled Ollie with a position as her secretary at
twenty-five dollars a week and bought her some new dresses.
Her mother scolded poor Ollie for being such a stick as not to be able
to dance like her sister and having to be dependent on her. There was
something hideously immoral and disconcerting about this success. But
then there always is. Prue was whisked from the ranks of the resentful
poor to those of the predatory rich.
Prue established Horace as cashier of the restaurant. She wanted to make
her father manager, but he could not bend his pride to the yoke of
taking wages from his child. If she had come home in disgrace and
repentance he could have been a father to her.
The blossoming of what had been Jake Meyer's place into what Carthage
called the "Palais de Pepperall" was a festival indeed. The newspapers,
in which at Horace's suggestion Prue advertised lavishly, gave the event
head-lines on the front page. The article included a complete catalogue
of those present. This roster of forty "Mesdames" was thereafter
accepted as the authorized beadroll of the Carthage Four Hundred. Mrs.
Hippisley was present and as proud as Judy. But the judge and William
Pepperall were absent, and Prue felt an ache in a heart that should have
been so full of pride. She and Orton rode home in a hack and she cried
all the way. In fact, he had to stick his head out and tell the driver
to drive round awhile until she was calm enough to go home.
A few days later, as Prue was hurrying along the street looking over a
list of things she had to purchase for her restaurant, she encountered
old Doctor Brearley, who was looking over a list of subscribers to the
fund for paying the overdue interest on the mortgage on the new steeple.
He was afraid the builders might take it down.
In trying to pass each other Prue and the preacher fell into an
involuntary tango step that delighted the witnesses. When Doctor
Brearley had recovered his composure, and before he had adjusted his
spectacles, he thought that Prue was Bertha Appleby, and he said:
"Ah, my dear child, I was just going to call on you and see if you
couldn't contribute a little to help us out in this very worthy cause."
Prue let him explain, and then she said:
"Tell you what I'll do, Doctor: I'll give you the entire proceeds of my
restaurant for one evening. And I'll dance for you with my husband."
Doctor Brearley was aghast when he realized the situation. He was afraid
to accept; afraid to refuse. He was in an excruciating dilemma. Prue had
mercy on him. She said:
"I'll just announce it as an idea of my own. You needn't have anything
to do with it."
The townspeople were set in a turmoil over Prue's latest audacity. Half
the church members declared it an outrage; the other half decided that
it gave them an opportunity to see her dance under safe auspices. Foxy
Prue!