To tell the truth—to blurt out nothing but the truth to every one, and
on every occasion, for three whole weeks—that’s what Bob had contracted
to do. From the point of view of the commodore and the others, the man
who tried to fill this contract would certainly be shot, or
electrocuted, or ridden out of town on a rail, or receive a coat of tar
and feathers. And Bob had such a wide circle of friends, too, which
would make his task the harder; the handsome dog was popular. He was
asked everywhere that was anywhere and he went, too. He would certainly
“get his.” The jovial commodore was delighted. He would have a whole lot
of fun at Bob’s expense. Wasn’t the latter the big boob, though? And
wouldn’t he be put through his paces? Really it promised to be
delicious. The commodore and the others went along with Bob just for a
little try-out.
At first nothing especially interesting happened. They walked without
meeting any one they were acquainted with. Transients! transients! where
did they all come from? Once on their progress down the avenue the hopes
of Bob’s friends rose high. A car they knew got held up on a side street
not far away from them. It was a gorgeous car and it had a gorgeous
occupant, but a grocery wagon was between them and it. The commodore
warbled blithely.
“Come on, Bob. Time for a word or two!”
But handsome Bob shook his head. “The ‘even tenor of his way,’” he
quoted. “I don’t ordinarily go popping in and out between wheels like a
rabbit. I’m not looking to commit suicide.”
“Oh, I only wanted to say: ‘How do you do,’” retorted the commodore
rather sulkily. “Or ‘May I tango with you at tea this afternoon, Mrs.
Ralston?’”
“Or observe: ‘How young she looks to-day, eh, Bob?’” murmured that young
gentleman suspiciously.
“Artful! Artful!” Clarence poked the commodore in the ribs. “Sly old
sea-dog!”
“Well, let’s move on,” yawned Dickie. “Nothing doing here.”
“Wait!” The commodore had an idea. “Hi, you young grocery lad, back up a
little, will you?”
“Wha’ for?” said the boy, aggressive at once. Babes are born in New York
with chips on their shoulders.
“As a matter of trifling accommodation, that is all,” answered the
commodore sweetly. “On the other side of you is a stately car and we
would hold conversation with—”
“Aw, gwan! Guess I got as much right to the street as it has.” And as a
display of his “rights,” he even touched up his horse a few inches, to
intervene more thoroughly.
“Perhaps now for half a dollar—” began the commodore, more
insinuatingly. Then he groaned: “Too late!” The policeman had lifted the
ban. The stately car turned into the avenue and was swallowed up amid a
myriad of more or less imposing vehicles. They had, however, received a
bow from the occupant. That was all there had been opportunity for.
Incidentally, the small boy had bestowed upon them his parting
compliments:
“Smart old guy! You think youse—” The rest was jumbled up or lost in
the usual cacophony of the thoroughfare.
“Too bad!” murmured the commodore. “But still these three weeks are
young.”
“‘Three weeks!’” observed Dickie. “Sounds like plagiarism!”
“Oh, Bob won’t have that kind of a ‘three weeks,’” snickered Clarence.
“Bob’s will be an expurgated edition,” from the commodore, recovering
his spirits.
“Maybe we ought to make it four?”
“Three will do,” said Bob, who wasn’t enjoying this chaffing. Every one
they approached he now eyed apprehensively.
But he was a joy-giver, if not receiver, for his tall handsome figure
attracted many admiring glances. His striking head with its blond
curls—they weren’t exactly curls, only his hair wasn’t straight, but
clung rather wavy-like to the bold contour of his head—his careless
stride, and that general effect of young masculinity—all this caused
sundry humble feminine hearts to go pit-a-pat. Bob’s progress, however,
was generally followed by pit-a-pats from shop-girls and bonnet-bearers.
Especially at the noon hour! Then Bob seemed to these humble toilers,
like dessert, after hard-boiled eggs, stale sandwiches and pickles.
But Bob was quite unaware of any approving glances cast after him. He
was thinking, and thinking hard. He wasn’t so sanguine now as he had
been when he had left the club. What might have happened at that street
corner appealed to him with sudden poignant force. Mrs. Ralston was of
the _creme de la creme_. She was determined to stay young. She pretended
to be thirty years or so younger than she was. In fact, she was rather a
ridiculous old lady who found it hard to conceal her age. Now what if
the commodore had found opportunity to ask that awful question? Bob
could have made only one reply and told the truth. The largeness of his
contract was becoming more apparent to him. He began to see himself now
from Dan’s standpoint. Incidentally, he was beginning to develop a great
dislike for that genial land-mariner.
“How about the Waldorf?” They had paused at the corner of Thirty-fourth
Street. “May find some one there,” suggested Clarence.
“In Peek-a-Boo Alley?” scornfully from Dickie.
“Oh, I heard there was a concert, or something upstairs,” said Clarence.
“In that you’ve-got-to-be-introduced room! And some of the real people
have to walk through to get to it.”
Accordingly they entered the Waldorf and the commodore hustled them up
and down and around, without, however, their encountering a single
“real” person. There were only people present—loads of them, not from
somewhere but from everywhere. They did the circuit several times, still
without catching sight of a real person.
“Whew! This _is_ a lonesome place!” breathed the commodore at last.
“Let’s depart!” disgustedly from Clarence. “Apologize for steering you
into these barren wastes!”
“What’s your hurry?” said Bob, with a little more bravado. Then suddenly
he forgot about those other three. His entranced gaze became focused on
one. He saw only her.
“Ha!” The commodore’s quick glance, following Bob’s, caught sight, too,
of that wonderful face in the distance—the stunning, glowing young
figure—that regal dream of just-budded girlhood—that superb vision in
a lovely afternoon gown! She was followed by one or two others. One
could only imagine her leading. There would, of course, always be
several at her either side and quite a number dangling behind. Her lips
were like the red rosebuds that swung negligently from her hand as she
floated through the crowd. Her eyes suggested veiled dreams amid the
confusion and hubbub of a topsyturvy world. She was like something
rhythmical precipitated amid chaos. A far-away impression of a smile
played around the corners of her proud lips.
The commodore precipitated himself in her direction. Bob put out a hand
as if to grasp him by the coat tails, but the other was already beyond
reach and Bob’s hand fell to his side. He stood passive. That was his
part. Only he wasn’t passive inwardly. His heart was beating wildly. He
could imagine himself with her and them—those others in her train—and
the conversation that would ensue, for he had no doubt of the
commodore’s intentions. Dan was an adept at rounding up people. Bob
could see himself at a table participating in the conversation—prepared
conversation, some of it! He could imagine the commodore leading little
rivulets of talk into certain channels for his benefit. Dan would see to
it that they would ask him (Bob) questions, embarrassing ones. That
“advice” dad had given him weighed on Bob like a nightmare.
Suppose—ghastly thought!—truth compelled him ever to speak of that?
And to her! A shiver ran down Bob’s backbone. Nearer she
drew—nearer—while Bob gazed as if fascinated, full of rapturous,
paradoxical dread. Now the commodore was almost upon her when—
Ah, what was that? An open elevator?—people going in?—She, too,—those
with her—Yes—click! a closed door! The radiant vision had vanished,
was going upward; Bob breathed again. Think of being even paradoxically
glad at witnessing _her_ disappear! Bob ceased now to think; stood as in
a trance.
“Why _do_ people go to concerts?” said the commodore in aggrieved tones.
“Some queen, that!”
“And got the rocks—or stocks!” from Dickie. “Owns about three of those
railroads that are going a-begging nowadays.”
“Wake up, Bobbie!” some one now addressed that abstracted individual.
Bob shook himself.
“Old friend of yours, Miss Gwendoline Gerald, I believe?” said the
commodore significantly.
“Yes; I’ve known Miss Gerald for some time,” said Bob coldly.
“‘Known for some time’—” mimicked the commodore. “Phlegmatic dog! Well,
what shall we do now?”
“Hang around until the concert’s over?” suggested Dickie.
“Hang around nothing!” said the commodore. “It’s one of those classical
high-jinks.” Disgustedly. “Lasts so late the sufferers haven’t time for
anything after it’s over. Just enough energy left to stagger to their
cars and fall over in a comatose condition.”
“Suppose we _could_ go to the bar?”
“Naughty! Naughty!” A sprightly voice interrupted.
The commodore wheeled. “Mrs. Ralston!” he exclaimed gladly.
It was the gorgeous lady of the gorgeous car.
“Just finished my shopping and thought I’d have a look in here,” she
said vivaciously.
“Concert, I suppose?” from the commodore, jubilantly.
“Yes. Dubussy. Don’t you adore Dubussy?” with schoolgirlish enthusiasm.
Though almost sixty, she had the manners of a “just-come-out.”
“Nothing like it,” lied the commodore.
“Ah, then you, too, are a modern?” gushed the lady.
“I’m so advanced,” said the commodore, “I can’t keep up with myself.”
They laughed. “Ah, silly man!” said the lady’s eyes. Bob gazed at her
and the commodore enviously. Oh, to be able once more to prevaricate
like that! The commodore had never heard Dubussy in his life. Ragtime
and merry hornpipes were his limits. And Mrs. Ralston was going to the
concert, it is true, but to hear the music? Ah, no! Her box was a
fashionable rendezvous, and from it she could study modernity in hats.
Therein, at least, she was a modern of the moderns. She was so advanced,
the styles had fairly to trot, or turkey-trot, to keep up with her.
“Well,” she said, with that approving glance women usually bestowed upon
Bob, “I suppose I mustn’t detain you busy people after that remark I
overheard.”
“Oh, don’t hurry,” said the commodore hastily. “Between old friends—
But I say— By jove, you _are_ looking well. Never saw you looking so
young and charming. Never!” It was rather crudely done, but the
commodore could say things more bluntly than other people and “get away
with them.” He was rather a privileged character. Bob began to breathe
hard, having a foretaste of what was to follow. And Mrs. “Willie”
Ralston was Miss Gwendoline Gerald’s aunt! No doubt that young lady was
up in her aunt’s box at this moment.
“Never!” repeated the commodore. “Eh, Bob? Doesn’t look a day over
thirty,” with a jovial, freehearted sailor laugh. “Does she now?”
It had come. That first test! And the question had to be answered. The
lady was looking at Bob. They were all waiting. A fraction of a second,
or so, which seemed like a geological epoch, Bob hesitated. He had to
reply and yet being a gentleman, how could he? No matter what it cost
him, he would simply have to “lie like a gentleman.” He—
Suddenly an idea shot through his befuddled brain. Maybe Mrs. Ralston
wouldn’t know what he said, if he—? She had been numerous times to
France, of course, but she was not mentally a heavy-weight. Languages
might not be her forte. Presumably she had all she could do to chatter
in English. Bob didn’t know much French himself. He would take a chance
on her, however. He made a bow which was Chesterfieldian and
incidentally made answer, rattling it off with the swiftness of a
boulevardier.
“_Il me faut dire que, vraiment, Madame Ralston parait aussi agee
qu’elle l’est!_” (“I am obliged to say that Mrs. Ralston appears as old
as she is!”)
Then he straightened as if he had just delivered a stunning compliment.
“_Merci!_” The lady smiled. She also beamed. “How well you speak French,
Mr. Bennett!”
The commodore nearly exploded. _He_ understood French.
Bob expanded, beginning to breathe freely once more. “Language of
courtiers and diplomats!” he mumbled.
Mrs. Ralston shook an admonishing finger at him. “Flatterer!” she said,
and departed.
Whereupon the commodore leaned weakly against Dickie while Clarence sank
into a chair. First round for Bob!
* * * * *
The commodore was the first to recover. His voice was reproachful. “Was
_that_ quite fair?—that parleyvoo business? I don’t know about it’s
being allowed.”
“Why not?” calmly from Bob. “Is truth confined to one tongue?”
“But what about that ‘even tenor of your way’?” fenced the commodore.
“You don’t, as a usual thing, go around parleyvooing—”
“What about the even tenor of your own ways?” retorted Bob.
“Nothing said about _that_ when we—”
“No, but—how can _I_ go the even tenor, if _you_ don’t go yours?”
“Hum?” said the commodore.
“Don’t you see it’s not the even tenor?” persisted Bob. “But it’s your
fault if it isn’t.”
“Some logic in that,” observed Clarence.
“Maybe, we _have_ been a bit too previous,” conceded the commodore.
“That isn’t precisely the adjective I would use,” returned Bob. He found
himself thinking more clearly now. They had all, perhaps, been stepping
rather lightly when they had left the club. He should have thought of
this before. But Bob’s brain moved rather slowly sometimes and the
others had been too bent on having a good time to consider all the
ethics of the case. They showed themselves fair-minded enough now,
however.
“Bob’s right,” said the commodore sorrowfully. “Suppose we’ve got to
eliminate ourselves from his agreeable company for the next three weeks,
unless we just naturally happen to meet. We’ll miss a lot of fun, but I
guess it’s just got to be. What about that parleyvooing business though,
Bob?”
“That’s got to be eliminated, too!” from Dickie. “Why, he might tell the
truth in Chinese.”
“All right, fellows,” said Bob shortly. “You quit tagging and I’ll talk
United States.”
“Good. I’m off,” said the commodore. And he went. The others followed.
Bob was left alone. He found the solitude blessed and began to have
hopes once more. Why, he might even be permitted to enjoy a real lonely
three weeks, now that he had got rid of that trio. He drew out a cigar
and began to tell himself he _was_ enjoying himself when—
“Mr. Robert Bennett!” The voice of a page smote the air. It broke into
his reflections like a shock.
“Mr. Bennett!” again bawled the voice.
For the moment Bob was tempted to let him slip by, but conscience
wouldn’t let him. He lifted a finger.
“Message for Mr. Bennett,” said the urchin.
Bob took it. He experienced forebodings as he saw the dainty card and
inscription. He read it. Then he groaned. Would Mr. Robert Bennett join
Mrs. Ralston’s house-party at Tonkton? There were a few more words in
that impulsive lady’s characteristic, vivacious style. And then there
were two words in another handwriting that he knew. “Will you?” That
“Will you?” wasn’t signed. Bob stared at it. Would he? He had to. He was
in honor bound, because ordinarily he would have accepted with alacrity.
But a house-party for him, under present circumstances! He would be a
merry guest. Ye gods and little fishes! And then some! He gave a hollow
laugh, while the urchin gazed at him sympathetically. Evidently the
gentleman had received bad news.