MR. AND MRS. LITTLE JIMMIE
Mrs. Sammy Whitcomb had longed for the sweet privilege of squaring
matters with Mrs. Jimmie Wellington. Sneers and back-biting, shrugs
and shudders of contempt were poor compensation for the ever-vivid
fact that Mrs. Wellington had proved attractive to her Sammy while
Mrs. Wellington's Jimmie never looked at Mrs. Whitcomb. Or if he did,
his eyes had been so blurred that he had seen two of her--and avoided
both.
Yesterday she had overheard Jimmie vow sobriety. To-day his shining
morning face showed that he had kept his word. She could hardly wait
to begin the flirtation which, she trusted, would render Mrs.
Wellington helplessly furious for six long Reno months.
The Divorce Drummer interposed and held Jimmie prisoner for a time,
but as soon as Mr. Baumann released him, Mrs. Whitcomb apprehended
him. With a smile that beckoned and with eyes that went out like
far-cast fishhooks, she drew Leviathan into her net.
She reeled him in and he plounced in the seat opposite. What she took
for bashfulness was reluctance. To add the last charm to her success,
Mrs. Wellington arrived to see it. Mrs. Whitcomb saw the lonely Ashton
rise and offer her the seat facing him. Mrs. Wellington took it and
sat down with the back of her head so close to the back of Mr.
Wellington's head that the feather in her hat tickled his neck.
Jimmie Wellington had seen his wife pass by. To his sober eyes she was
a fine sight as she moved up the aisle. In his alcohol-emancipated
mind the keen sense of wrong endured that had driven him forth to Reno
began to lose its edge. His own soul appealed from Jimmie drunk to
Jimmie sober. The appellate judge began to reverse the lower court's
decision, point by point.
He felt a sudden recrudescence of jealousy as he heard Ashton's voice
unctuously, flirtatiously offering his wife hospitality. He wanted to
trounce Ashton. But what right had he to defend from gallantry the
woman he was about to forswear before the world? Jimmie's soul was in
turmoil, and Mrs. Whitcomb's pretty face and alluring smile only
annoyed him.
She had made several gracious speeches before he quite comprehended
any of them. Then he realized that she was saying: "I'm so glad you're
going to stop at Reno, Mr. Wellington."
"Thank you. So am I," he mumbled, trying to look interested and
wishing that his wife's plume would not tickle his neck.
Mrs. Whitcomb went on, leaning closer: "We two poor mistreated
wretches must try to console one another, musn't we?"
"Yes,--yes,--we must," Wellington nodded, with a sickly cheer.
Mrs. Whitcomb leaned a little closer. "Do you know that I feel almost
related to you, Mr. Wellington?"
"Related?" he echoed, "you?--to me? How?"
"My husband knew your wife so well."
Somehow a wave of jealous rage surged over him, and he growled: "Your
husband is a scoundrel."
Mrs. Whitcomb's smile turned to vinegar: "Oh, I can't permit you to
slander the poor boy behind his back. It was all your wife's fault."
Wellington amazed himself by his own bravery when he heard himself
volleying back: "And I can't permit you to slander my wife behind her
back. It was all your husband's fault."
Mrs. Jimmie overheard this behind her back, and it strangely thrilled
her. She ignored Ashton's existence and listened for Mrs. Whitcomb's
next retort. It consisted of a simple, icy drawl: "I think I'll go to
breakfast."
She seemed to pick up Ashton with her eyes as she glided by, for,
finding himself unnoticed, he rose with a careless: "I think I'll go
to breakfast," and followed Mrs. Whitcomb. The Wellingtons sat
_dos-à-dos_ for some exciting seconds, and then on a sudden impulse,
Mrs. Jimmie rose, knelt in the seat and spoke across the back of it:
"It was very nice of you to defend me, Jimmie--er--James."
Wellington almost dislocated several joints in rising quickly and
whirling round at the cordiality of her tone. But his smile vanished
at her last word. He protested, feebly: "James sounds so like a--a
butler. Can't you call me Little Jimmie again?"
Mrs. Wellington smiled indulgently: "Well, since it's the last time.
Good-bye, Little Jimmie." And she put out her hand. He seized it
hungrily and clung to it: "Good-bye?--aren't you getting off at Reno?"
"Yes, but----"
"So am I--Lucretia."
"But we can't afford to be seen together."
Still holding her hand, he temporized: "We've got to stay married for
six months at least--while we establish a residence. Couldn't
we--er--couldn't we establish a residence--er--together?"
Mrs. Wellington's eyes grew a little sad, as she answered: "It would
be too lonesome waiting for you to roll home."
Jimmie stared at her. He felt the regret in her voice and took strange
courage from it. He hauled from his pocket his huge flask, and said
quickly: "Well, if you're jealous of this, I'll promise to cork it up
forever."
She shook her head skeptically: "You couldn't."
"Just to prove it," he said, "I'll chuck it out of the window." He
flung up the sash and made ready to hurl his enemy into the flying
landscape.
"Bravo!" cried Mrs. Wellington.
But even as his hand was about to let go, he tightened his clutch
again, and pondered: "It seems a shame to waste it."
"I thought so," said Mrs. Jimmie, drooping perceptibly. Her husband
began to feel that, after all, she cared what became of him.
"I'll tell you," he said, "I'll give it to old Doc Temple. He takes
his straight."
"Fine!"
He turned towards the seat where the clergyman and his wife were
sitting, oblivious of the drama of reconciliation playing so close at
hand. Little Jimmie paused, caressed the flask, and kissed it.
"Good-bye, old playmate!" Then, tossing his head with bravado, he
reached out and touched the clergyman's shoulder. Dr. Temple turned
and rose with a questioning look. Wellington put the flask in his hand
and chuckled: "Merry Christmas!"
"But, my good man----" the preacher objected, finding in his hand a
donation about as welcome and as wieldy as a strange baby. Wellington
winked: "It may come in handy for--your patients."
And now, struck with a sudden idea, Mrs. Wellington spoke: "Oh, Mrs.
Temple."
"Yes, my dear," said the little old lady, rising. Mrs. Wellington
placed in her hand a small portfolio and laughed: "Happy New Year!"
Mrs. Temple stared at her gift and gasped: "Great heavens! Your
cigars!"
"They'll be such a consolation," Mrs. Wellington explained, "while the
Doctor is out with his patients."
Dr. Temple and Mrs. Temple looked at each other in dismay, then at the
flask and the cigars, then at the Wellingtons, then they stammered:
"Thank you so much," and sank back, stupefied.
Wellington stared at his wife: "Lucretia, are you sincere?"
"Jimmie, I promise you I'll never smoke another cigar."
"My love!" he cried, and seized her hand. "You know I always said you
were a queen among women, Lucretia."
She beamed back at him: "And you always were the prince of good
fellows, Jimmie." Then she almost blushed as she murmured, almost
shyly: "May I pour your coffee for you again this morning?"
"For life," he whispered, and they moved up the aisle, arm in arm,
bumping from seat to seat and not knowing it.
When Mrs. Whitcomb, seated in the dining-car, saw Mrs. Little Jimmie
pour Mr. Little Jimmie's coffee, she choked on hers. She vowed that
she would not permit those odious Wellingtons to make fools of her and
her Sammy. She resolved to telegraph Sammy that she had changed her
mind about divorcing him, and order him to take the first train West
and meet her half-way on her journey home.