THE MAYOR BEGINS A VIGIL
One summer evening, in dim dead days gone by, an inexperienced head
waiter at Baldpate Inn had attempted to seat Mrs. J. Sanderson Clark, of
Pittsburgh, at the same table with the unassuming Smiths, of Tiffin,
Ohio. The remarks of Mrs. Clark, who was at the time busily engaged in
trying to found a first family, lingered long in the memory of those who
heard them. So long, in fact, that Miss Norton, standing with Mr. Magee
in the hotel office awaiting the signal from Peters that dinner was
ready, could repeat them almost verbatim. Mr. Magee cast a humorous look
about.
"Lucky the manners and customs of the summer folks aren't carried over
into the winter," he said. "Imagine a Mrs. Clark asked to sit at table
with the mayor of Reuton and his picturesque but somewhat soiled friend,
Mr. Max. I hope the dinner is a huge success."
The girl laughed.
"The natural nervousness of a host," she remarked. "Don't worry. The
hermit and his tins won't fail you."
"It's not the culinary end that worries me," smiled Magee. "It's the
repartee and wit. I want the mayor to feel at home. Do you know any good
stories ascribed to Congressman Jones, of the Asquewan district?"
Together they strolled to a window. The snow had begun to fall again,
and the lights of the little hamlet below showed but dimly through the
white blur.
"I want you to know," said the girl, "that I trust you now. And when the
time comes, as it will soon--to-night--I am going to ask you to help me.
I may ask a rather big thing, and ask you to do it blindly, just
trusting in me, as I refused to trust in you." She stopped and looked
very seriously into Mr. Magee's face.
"I'm mighty glad," he answered in a low tone. "From the moment I saw you
weeping in the station I've wanted to be of help to you. The station
agent advised me not to interfere. He said to become involved with a
weeping woman meant trouble. The fool. As though any trouble--"
"He was right," put in the girl, "it probably will mean trouble."
"As though any storm," finished Mr. Magee "would not be worth the
rainbow of your smile at the end."
"A very fancy figure," laughed she. "But storms aren't nice."
"There are a few of us," replied Magee, "who can be merry through the
worst of them because of the rainbow to come."
For answer, she flattened her finely-modeled nose into shapelessness
against the cold pane. Back of them in the candle-lighted room, the
motley crew of Baldpate's winter guests stood about in various attitudes
of waiting. In front of the fire the holder of the Chair of Comparative
Literature quoted poetry to Mrs. Norton, and probably it never occurred
to the old man that the woman to whom he talked was that nightmare of
his life--a peroxide blonde. Ten feet away in the flickering half-light,
the immense bulk of the mayor of Reuton reposed on the arm of a leather
couch, and before him stood his lithe unpleasant companion, Lou Max,
side by side with Mr. Bland, whose talk of haberdashery was forever
stilled. The candles sputtered, the storm angrily rattled the windows;
Mr. Peters flitted like a hairy wraith about the table. So the strange
game that was being played at Baldpate Inn followed the example of good
digestion and waited on appetite.
What Mr. Magee flippantly termed his dinner party was seated at last,
and there began a meal destined to linger long in the memories of those
who partook if it. Puzzled beyond words, the host took stock of his
guests. Opposite him, at the foot of the table, he could see the lined
tired face of Mrs. Norton, dazed, uncomprehending, a little frightened.
At his right the great red acreage of Cargan's face held defiance and
some amusement; beside it sneered the cruel face of Max; beyond that Mr.
Bland's countenance told a story of worry and impotent anger. And on Mr.
Magee's left sat the professor, bearded, spectacled, calm, seemingly
undisturbed by this queer flurry of events, beside the fair girl of the
station who trusted Magee at last. In the first few moments of silence
Mr. Magee compared her delicate features with the coarse knowing face of
the woman at the table's foot, and inwardly answered "No."
Without the genial complement of talk the dinner began. Mr. Peters
appeared with another variety of his canned soup, whereupon the silence
was broken by the gastronomic endeavors of Mr. Max and the mayor. Mr.
Magee was reflecting that conversation must be encouraged, when Cargan
suddenly spoke.
"I hope I ain't putting you folks out none," he remarked with obvious
sarcasm. "It ain't my habit to drop in unexpected like this. But
business--"
"We're delighted, I'm sure," said Mr. Magee politely.
"I suppose you want to know why I'm here," the mayor went on.
"Well--" he hesitated--"it's like this--"
"Dear Mr. Cargan," Magee broke in, "spare us, I pray. And spare
yourself. We have had explanations until we are weary. We have decided
to drop them altogether, and just to take it for granted that, in the
words of the song, we're here because we're here."
"All right," replied Cargan, evidently relieved. "That suits me. I'm
tired explaining, anyhow. There's a bunch of reformers rose up lately in
Reuton--maybe you've heard about 'em. A lovely bunch. A white necktie
and a half-portion of brains apiece. They say they're going to do for me
at the next election."
Mr. Max laughed harshly from the vicinity of his soup.
"They wrote the first joke book, them people," he said.
"Well," went on Cargan, "there ain't nobody so insignificant and
piffling that people won't listen to 'em when they attack a man in
public life. So I've had to reply to this comic opera bunch, and as I
say, I'm about wore out explaining. I've had to explain that I never
stole the town I used to live in in Indiana, and that I didn't stick up
my father with a knife. It gets monotonous. So I'm much obliged to you
for passing the explanations up. We won't bother you long, me and Lou. I
got a little business here, and then we'll mosey along. We'll clear out
about nine o'clock."
"No," protested Magee. "So soon? We must make it pleasant for you while
you stay. I always hate hosts who talk about their servants--I have a
friend who bores me to death because he has a Jap butler he believes was
at Mukden. But I think I am justified in calling your attention to
ours--Mr. Peters, the Hermit of Baldpate Mountain. Cooking is merely his
avocation. He is writing a book."
"That guy," remarked Cargan, incredulous.
"What do you know about that?" asked Mr. Bland. "It certainly will get a
lot of hot advertising if it ever appears. It's meant to prove that all
the trouble in the world has been caused by woman."
The mayor considered.
"He's off--he's nutty, that fellow," he announced. "It ain't women that
cause all of the trouble."
"Thank you, Mr. Cargan," said Miss Norton, smiling.
"Anybody'd know it to look at you, miss," replied the mayor in his most
gallant manner. Then he added hastily: "And you, ma'am," with a nod in
the other woman's direction.
"I don't know as I got the evidence in my face," responded Mrs. Norton
easily, "but women don't make no trouble, I know that. I think the man's
crazy, myself, and I'd tell him so if he wasn't the cook." She paused,
for Peters had entered the room. There was silence while he changed the
courses. "It's getting so now you can't say the things to a cook you can
to a king," she finished, after the hermit had retired.
"Ahem--Mr. Cargan," put in Professor Bolton, "you give it as your
opinion that woman is no trouble-maker, and I must admit that I agree
with your premise in general, although occasionally she may cause a--a
slight annoyance. Undeniably, there is a lot of trouble in the world. To
whose efforts do you ascribe it?"
The mayor ran his thick fingers through his hair.
"I got you," he said, "and I got your answer, too. Who makes the
trouble? Who's made it from the beginning of time? The reformers, Doc.
Yes, sir. Who was the first reformer? The snake in the garden of Eden.
This hermit guy probably has that affair laid down at woman's door. Not
much. Everything was running all right around the garden, and then the
snake came along. It's a twenty to one shot he'd just finished a series
of articles on 'The Shame of Eden' for a magazine. 'What d'ye mean?' he
says to the woman, 'by letting well enough alone? Things are all wrong
here. The present administration is running everything into the ground.
I can tell you a few things that will open your eyes. What's that? What
you don't know won't hurt you? The old cry', he says, 'the old cry
against which progressives got to fight,' he says. 'Wake up. You need a
change here. Try this nice red apple, and you'll see things the way I
do.' And the woman fell for it. You know what happened."
"An original point of view," said the dazed professor.
"Yes, Doc," went on Mr. Cargan, evidently on a favorite topic, "it's the
reformers that have caused all the trouble, from that snake down. Things
are running smooth, folks all prosperous and satisfied--then they come
along in their gum shoes and white neckties. And they knock away at the
existing order until the public begins to believe 'em and gives 'em a
chance to run things. What's the result? The world's in a worse tangle
than ever before."
"You feel deeply on the subject, Mr. Cargan," remarked Magee.
"I ought to," the mayor replied. "I ain't no writer, but if I was, I'd
turn out a book that would drive this whiskered hermit's argument to the
wall. Woman--bah! The only way women make trouble is by falling for the
reform gag."
Mr. Peters here interrupted with the dessert, and through that course
Mr. Cargan elaborated on his theory. He pointed out how, in many states,
reform had interrupted the smooth flow of life, set everything awhirl,
and cruelly sent "the boys" who had always been faithful out into the
cold world seeking the stranger, work. While he talked, the eyes of Lou
Max looked out at him from behind the incongruous gold-rimmed glasses,
with the devotion of the dog to its master clearly written in them. Mr.
Magee had read many articles about this picturesque Cargan who had
fought his way with his fists to the position of practical dictator in
the city of Reuton. The story was seldom told without a mention of his
man Max--Lou Max who kept the south end of Reuton in line for the mayor,
and in that low neighborhood of dives and squalor made Cargan's a name
to conjure with. Watching him now, Mr. Magee marveled at this cheap
creature's evident capacity for loyalty.
"It was the reformers got Napoleon," the mayor finished. "Yes, they sent
Napoleon to an island at the end. And him without an equal since the
world began."
"Is your--begging your pardon--is your history just straight?" demurred
Professor Bolton timidly.
"Is it?" frowned Cargan. "You can bet it is. I know Napoleon from the
cradle to the grave. I ain't an educated man, Doc--I can hire all the
educated men I want for eighteen dollars a week--but I'm up on
Bonaparte."
"It seems to me," Miss Norton put in, "I have heard--did I read it in a
paper?--that a picture of Napoleon hangs above your desk. They say that
you see in your own career, a similarity to his. May I ask--is it true?"
"No, miss," replied Cargan. "That's a joking story some newspaper guy
wrote up. It ain't got no more truth in it than most newspaper yarn. No,
I ain't no Napoleon. There's lots of differences between us--one in
particular." He raised his voice, and glared at the company around the
table. "One in particular. The reformers got Napoleon at the end."
"But the end is not yet," suggested Mr. Magee, smiling.
Mr. Cargan gave him a sudden and interested look.
"I ain't worrying," he replied. "And don't you, young fellow."
Mr. Magee responded that he was not one to indulge in needless worry,
and a silence fell upon the group. Peters entered with coffee, and was
engaged in pouring it when Mr. Bland started up wildly from the table
with an expression of alarm on his face.
"What's that?" he cried.
The others looked at him in wonder.
"I heard steps up-stairs," he declared.
"Nonsense," said Mr. Cargan, "you're dreaming. This peace and quiet has
got to you, Bland."
Without replying, Mr. Bland rose and ran up the stair. In his absence
the Hermit of Baldpate spoke into Magee's ear.
"I ain't one to complain," he said; "livin' alone as much as I do I've
sort of got out of the habit, having nobody to complain to. But if folks
keep coming and coming to this hotel, I've got to resign as cook. Seems
as though every few minutes there's a new face at the table, and it's a
vital matter to me."
"Cheer up, Peters," whispered Mr. Magee. "There are only two more keys
to the inn. There will be a limit to our guests."
"What I'm getting at is," replied Mr. Peters, "there's a limit to my
endurance."
Mr. Bland came down-stairs. His face was very pale as he took his seat,
but in reply to Cargan's question he remarked that he must have been
mistaken.
"It was the wind, I guess," he said.
The mayor made facetious comment on Mr. Bland's "skittishness", and Mr.
Max also indulged in a gibe or two. These the haberdasher met with a wan
smile. So the dinner came to an end, and the guests of Baldpate sat
about while Mr. Peters removed all traces of it from the table. Mr.
Magee sought to talk to Miss Norton, but found her nervous and distrait.
"Has Mr. Bland frightened you?" he asked.
She shook her head. "I have other things to think of," she replied.
Mr. Peters shortly bade the company good-by for the night, with the
warmly expressed hope in Mr. Magee's ear that there would be no further
additions to the circle in the near future. When he had started off
through the snow for his shack, Mr. Cargan took out his watch.
"You've been pretty kind to us poor wanderers already," he said. "I got
one more favor to ask. I come up here to see Mr. Bland. We got some
business to transact, and we'd consider it a great kindness if you was
to leave us alone here in the office."
Mr. Magee hesitated. He saw the girl nod her head slightly, and move
toward the stairs.
"Certainly, if you wish," he said. "I hope you won't go without saying
good-by, Mr. Cargan."
"That all depends," replied the mayor. "I've enjoyed knowing you, one
and all. Good night."
The women, the professor and Mr. Magee moved up the broad stairway. On
the landing Mr. Magee heard the voice of Mrs. Norton, somewhere in the
darkness ahead.
"I'm worried, dearie--real worried."
"Hush," came the girl's voice. "Mr. Magee-we'll meet again--soon."
Mr. Magee seized the professor's arm, and together they stood in the
shadows.
"I don't like the looks of things," came Bland's hoarse complaint from
below. "What time is it?"
"Seven-thirty." Cargan answered. "A good half-hour yet."
"There was somebody on the second floor when I went up," Bland
continued. "I saw him run into one of the rooms and lock the door."
"I've got charge now," the mayor reassured him, "don't you worry."
"There's something doing." This seemed to be Max's voice.
"There sure is," laughed Cargan. "But what do I care? I own young
Drayton. I put him where he is. I ain't afraid. Let them gumshoe round
as much as they want to. They can't touch me."
"Maybe not," said Bland. "But Baldpate Inn ain't the grand idea it
looked at first, is it?"
"It's a hell of an idea," answered Cargan. "There wasn't any need of all
this folderol. I told Hayden so. Does that phone ring?"
"No--it'll just flash a light, when they want us," Bland told him.
Mr. Magee and Professor Bolton continued softly up the stairs, and in
answer to the former's invitation, the old man entered number seven and
took a chair by the fire.
"It is an amazing tangle," he remarked, "in which we are involved. I
have no idea what your place is in the scheme of things up here. But I
assume you grasp what is going on, if I do not. I am not so keen of wit
as I once was."
"If you think," answered Mr. Magee, proffering a cigar, "that I am in on
this little game of 'Who's Who', then you are vastly mistaken. As a
matter of fact, I am as much in the dark as you are."
The professor smiled.
"Indeed," he said in a tone that showed his unbelief. "Indeed."
He was deep in a discussion of the meters of the poet Chaucer when there
came a knock at the door, and Mr. Lou Max's unpleasant head was thrust
inside.
"I been assigned," he said, "to sit up here in the hall and keep an eye
out for the ghost Bland heard tramping about. And being of a sociable
nature, I'd like to sit in your doorway, if you don't mind."
"By all means," replied Magee. "Here's a chair. Do you smoke?"
"Thanks." Mr. Max placed the chair sidewise in the doorway of number
seven, and sat down. From his place he commanded a view of Mr. Magee's
apartments and of the head of the stairs. With his yellow teeth he
viciously bit the end from the cigar. "Don't let me interrupt the
conversation, gentlemen," he pleaded.
"We were speaking," said the professor calmly, "of the versification of
Chaucer. Mr. Magee--"
He continued his discussion in an even voice, Mr. Magee leaned back in
his chair and smiled in a pleased way at the settings of the stage: Mr.
Max in a cloud of smoke on guard at his door; the mayor and Mr. Bland
keeping vigil by a telephone switchboard in the office below, watching
for the flash of light that should tell them some one in the outside
world wanted to speak to Baldpate Inn; a mysterious figure who flitted
about in the dark; a beautiful girl who was going to ask Mr. Magee to do
her a service, blindly trusting her.
The professor droned on monotonously. Once Mr. Magee interrupted to
engage Lou Max in spirited conversation. For, through the squares of
light outside the windows, he had seen the girl of the station pass
hurriedly down the balcony, the snowflakes falling white on her yellow
hair.