By all the laws of physics, Mr. Opp during the months that ensued,
should have stood perfectly still. For if ever two forces pulled with
equal strength in opposite directions, love and ambition did in the
heart of our friend the editor. But Mr. Opp did not stand still; on the
contrary, he seemed to be moving in every direction at once.
In due time "The Opp Eagle" made its initial flight, and received the
approbation of the community. The first page was formal, containing the
editorial, a list of the subscribers, a notice to tax-payers, and three
advertisements, one of which requested "the lady public to please note
that the hats put out by Miss Duck Brown do not show the wire composing
the frame."
But the first page of the "Eagle" was like the front door of a house:
when once you got on the other side of it, you were in the family, as it
were, formality was dropped, and an easy atmosphere of familiarity
prevailed. You read that Uncle Enoch Siller had Sundayed over at the
Ridge, or that Aunt Gussy Williams was on the puny list, and frequently
there were friendly references to "Ye Editor" or "Ye Quill Driver," for
after soaring to dizzy heights in his editorials, Mr. Opp condescended
to come down on the second page and move in and out of the columns, as a
host among his guests.
It is painful to reflect what would have been the fate of the infatuated
Mr. Opp in these days had it not been for the faithful Nick. Nick's
thirst for work was insatiable; he yearned for responsibility, and was
never so happy as when gathering news. He chased an item as a dog might
chase a rat, first scenting it, then hunting it down, and after
mutilating it a bit, proudly returning it to his master.
Mr. Opp was enabled, by this competent assistance, to spare many a
half-hour in consultation with Miss Guinevere Gusty concerning the
reportorial work she was going to do on the paper. The fact that nobody
died or got married delayed all actual performance, but in order to be
ready for the emergency, frequent calls were deemed expedient.
It became part of the day's program to read her his editorial, or
consult her about some social item, or to report a new subscriber, his
self-esteem meanwhile putting forth all manner of new shoots and
bursting into exotic bloom under the warmth of her approval.
Miss Gusty, on her part, was acquiring a new interest in her
surroundings. In addition to the subtle flattery of being consulted, she
was the recipient of daily offerings of books, and music, and drugstore
candy, and sometimes a handful of flowers, carefully concealed in a
newspaper to escape the vigilant eye of Jimmy Fallows.
On several occasions she returned Mr. Opp's calls, picking her way
daintily across the road, and peeping in at the window to make sure he
was there.
It was at such times that the staff of "The Opp Eagle" misconducted
itself. It objected to a young woman in the press-room; it disapproved
of the said person sitting at the deal table in confidential
conversation with the editor; it saw no humor in her dipping the pencils
into the ink-well, and scrawling names on the new office stationery; and
when the point was reached that she moved about the office, asking
absurd questions and handling the type, the staff could no longer endure
it, but hastened forth to forget its annoyance in the pursuit of
business.
Moreover, the conduct of the chief, as Nick was pleased to call Mr. Opp,
was becoming more and more peculiar. He would arrive in the morning, his
pockets bristling with papers, and his mind with projects. He would
attack the work of the day with ferocious intensity, then in the midst
of it, without warning, he would lapse into an apparent trance, his
hands in his pockets, his eyes on the ceiling, and such a smile on his
face as one usually reserves for a camera.
Nick did not know that it was the song of the siren that was calling Mr.
Opp, who, instead of lashing himself to the mast and steering for the
open sea, was letting his little craft drift perilously near the rocky
coast.
No feature of the proceedings was lost upon Mrs. Gusty. She applied the
same method to her daughter that she did to her vines, tying her firmly
to the wall of her own ability, and prescribing the direction and length
to which she should grow. The situation would need pruning later, but
for the present she studied conditions and bided her time.
Meanwhile the "Eagle" was circling more widely in its flight. Mr. Opp's
persistent and eloquent articles pertaining to the great oil wealth of
the region had been reinforced by a favorable report from the laboratory
in the city to which he had sent a specimen from the spring on Turtle
Creek. Thus equipped with wings of hope, and a small ballast of fact,
the "Eagle" went soaring on its way, and in time attracted the attention
of a party of capitalists who were traveling through the State,
investigating oil and mineral possibilities.
One epoch-making day, the editor was called up over the long-distance
telephone, and, after answering numerous inquiries, was told that the
party expected to spend the following night in the Cove.
This important event took place the last of November, and threw the town
into great excitement. Mr. Opp received the message early in the
morning, and immediately set to work to call a meeting of the Turtle
Creek Land Company.
"This here is one of the most critical moments in the history of Cove
City," he announced excitedly to Nick. "It's a most fortunate thing that
they've got me here to make the preliminary arrangements, and to sort of
get the thing solidified, as you might say. I'll call a meeting for
eleven o'clock at Your Hotel. You call up old man Hager and the
preacher, and I will undertake to notify Jimmy Fallows and Mr. Tucker."
"The preacher ain't in town; he's out at Smither's Ridge, marrying a
couple. I got the whole notice written out beforehand."
"Well, tear it up," said Mr. Opp. "I've engaged a special hand to do all
weddings and funerals."
Nick looked hurt; this was the first time his kingdom had been invaded.
He kicked the door sullenly.
"I can't get the preacher if he's out at Smither's Ridge."
"Nick," said Mr. Opp, equally hurt, "is that the way for a subordinate
reporter to talk to a' editor? You don't seem to realize that this here
is a very serious and large transaction. There may be hundreds of
dollars involved. It's a' awful weight of responsibility for one man.
I'm willing to finance it and conduct the main issues, but I've got to
have the backing of all the other parties. Now it's with you whether
the preacher gets there or not."
"Shall I hunt up Mat Lucas, too?" asked Nick as he started forth.
"No; that's my branch of the work: but--say--Nick, your sister will have
to be there; she owns some shares."
"All right," said Nick; "her buggy is hitched up in front of Tucker's.
I'll tell her to wait till you come."
Mr. Opp was not long in following. He walked down the road with an
important stride, his bosom scarcely able to accommodate the feeling of
pride and responsibility that swelled it. He was in a position of trust;
his fellow-citizens would look to him, a man of larger experience and
business ability, to deal with these moneyed strangers. He would be
fair, but shrewd. He knew the clever wiles of the capitalists; he would
meet them with calm but unyielding dignity.
It was in this mood that he came upon Miss Jim, who was in the act of
disentangling a long lace scarf from her buggy whip. Her flushed face
and flashing eyes gave such unmistakable signs of wrath that Mr. Opp
glanced apprehensively at the whip in her hand, and then at Jimmy
Fallows, who was hitching her horse.
"Howdy, Mr. Opp," she said. "It's a pleasure to meet a gentleman, after
what I've seen."
"I hope," said Mr. Opp, "that our friend here ain't been indulging in
his customary--"
"It ain't Mr. Fallows," she broke in sharply; "it's Mr. Tucker. He ain't
got the feeling of a broomstick."
"Now, Miss Jim," began Jimmy Fallows in a teasing tone; but the lady
turned her back upon him and addressed Mr. Opp.
"You see this portrait," she said angrily, pulling it out from under the
seat. "It took me four weeks, including two Sunday afternoons, to make
it. I begun it the second week after Mrs. Tucker died, when I seen him
takin' on so hard at church. He was cryin' so when they took up the
collection that he never even seen the plate pass him. I went right
home and set to work on this here portrait, thinking he'd be glad and
willing to buy it from me. Wouldn't you, if you was a widower?"
Mr. Opp gazed doubtfully at the picture, which represented Mr. Tucker
sitting disconsolately beside a grave, with a black-bordered
handkerchief held lightly between his fingers. A weeping-willow drooped
above him, and on the tombstone at his side were two angels supporting
the initials of the late Mrs. Tucker.
"Why, Miss Jim," insisted Fallows, "you're askin' too much of old man
Tucker to expect him to keep on seein' a tombstone when he's got one eye
on you and one eye on the Widow Gusty. He ain't got any hair on top of
his head to part, but he's took to partin' it down the back, and I seen
him Sunday trying to read the hymns without his spectacles. He started
up on 'Let a Little Sunshine In' when they was singing 'Come, ye
Disconsolate.' You rub out the face and the initials on that there
picture and keep it for the nex' widower. Ketch him when he's still
droopin'. You'll get your money back. Your mistake was in waiting too
long."
"Speaking of waiting," said Mr. Opp, impatiently, "there's a call
meeting of the Turtle Creek Land Co. for this morning at eleven at Your
Hotel. Hope it's convenient, Jimmy."
"Oh, yes," said Jimmy; "we got more empty chairs at Your Hotel than
anything else. What's the meeting for? Struck gold?"
Mr. Opp imparted the great news.
"Oh, my land!" exclaimed Miss Jim, "will they be here to-day?"
"Not until to-morrow night," explained Mr. Opp. "This here meeting this
morning is for the stock-holders only. We got to kinder outline our
policy and arrange a sort of basis of operation."
"Well," said Miss Jim, "I'll take the portrait up to Mrs. Gusty's and
ask her to take care of it for me. I don't know as I can do the face
over into somebody else's, but I can't afford to lose it."
It was afternoon before the stock-holders could all be brought together.
They assembled in the office of Your Hotel in varying states of mind
ranging from frank skepticism to intense enthusiasm.
Mr. Tucker represented the conservative element. He was the rich man of
the town, with whom economy, at first a necessity, had become a luxury.
No greater proof could have been desired of Mr. Opp's persuasive powers
than that Mr. Tucker had invested in a hundred shares of the new stock.
He sat on the edge of his chair, wizen, anxious, fidgety, loaded with
objections, and ready to go off half-cocked. Old man Hager sat in his
shadow, objecting when he objected, voting as he voted, and prepared to
loosen or tighten his purse-strings as Mr. Tucker suggested.
Mat Lucas and Miss Jim were independents. They had both had sufficient
experience in business to know their own minds. If there was any money
to be made in the Cove or about it, they intended to have a part in it.
Mr. Opp and the preacher constituted the Liberal party. They furnished
the enthusiasm that floated the scheme. They were able to project
themselves into the future and prophesy dazzling probabilities.
Jimmy Fallows, alone of the group, maintained an artistic attitude
toward the situation. He was absolutely detached. He sat with his chair
tilted against the door and his thumbs in his armholes, and treated the
whole affair as a huge joke.
"The matter up for immediate consideration," Mr. Opp was saying
impressively, "is whether these here gentlemen should want to buy us
out, we would sell, or whether we would remain firm in possession, and
let them lease our ground and share the profits on the oil."
"Well, I'm kinder in favor of selling out if we get the chance," urged
Mr. Tucker in a high, querulous voice. "To sell on a rising market is
always a pretty good plan."
"After we run up ag'in' them city fellows," said Mat Lucas, "I'll be
surprised if we git as much out as we put in."
"Gentlemen," protested Mr. Opp, "this here ain't the attitude to assume
to the affair. To my profoundest belief there is a fortune in these here
lands. The establishment of 'The Opp Eagle' has, as you know, been a
considerable tax on my finances, but everything else I've got has gone
into this company. It's a great and glorious opportunity, one that I
been predicting and prophesying for these many years. Are we going to
sell out to this party, and let them reap the prize? No; I trust and
hope that such is not the case. In order to have more capital to open up
the mines, I advocate the taking of them in."
"I bet they been advocating the taking of us in," chuckled Jimmy.
"Well, my dear friends, suppose we vote on it," suggested the preacher.
"Reach yer hand back there in the press, Mr. Opp, and git the
lead-pencil," said Jimmy, without moving.
"The motion before the house," said Mr. Opp, "is whether we will sell
out or take 'em in. All in favor say 'Aye.'"
There was a unanimous vote in the affirmative, although each member
interpreted the motion in his own way.
"Very well," said Mr. Opp, briskly; "the motion is carried. Now we got
to arrange about entertaining the party."
Mr. Tucker, whose brain was an accommodation stopping at each station,
was still struggling with the recent motion when this new thought about
entertainment whizzed past. The instinct of the landlord awoke at the
call, and he promptly switched off the main line and went down the side
track.
"Gallop was here while ago," Jimmy was saying, with a satisfied glance
at Mr. Tucker; "said they wanted me to take keer of 'em. I'll 'commodate
all but the preachers. If there are any preachers, Mr. Tucker kin have
'em. I have to draw the line somewheres. I can't stand 'em
'Brother-Fallowsing' me. Last time the old woman corralled one and
brought him home, he was as glad to find me to work on as she'd 'a' be'n
to git some fruit to preserve. 'Brother,' he says, reaching out for my
hand, 'do you ever think about the awful place you are going to when you
die?' 'You bet,' says I; 'I got more friends there than anywhere.'" And
Jimmy's laugh shook the stove-pipe.
"How many gentlemen are coming to-morrow?" asked Miss Jim, who was
sitting in a corner as far as possible from Mr. Tucker.
"Ten," said Jimmy. "Now, you wouldn't think it, but this here hotel has
got six bedrooms. I've tooken care of as many as twenty at a time, easy,
but I'll be hanged if I ever heard of such foolishness as every one of
these fellers wantin' a room to hisself."
"I've got three rooms empty," said Mr. Tucker.
"Well, that leaves one over," said Mat Lucas. "I'd take him out home,
but we've got company, and are sleeping three in a bed now."
Mr. Opp hesitated; then his hospitality overcame his discretion.
"Just consider him my guest," he said. "I'll be very pleased to provide
entertainment for the gentleman in question."
Not until the business of the day was over, and Mr. Opp was starting
home, did he realize how tired he was. It was not his duties as an
editor, or even as a promoter, that were telling on him; it was his
domestic affairs that preyed upon his mind. For Mr. Opp not only led a
strenuous life by day, but by night as well. Miss Kippy's day began with
his coming home, and ended in the morning when he went away; the rest of
the time she waited.
Just now the problem that confronted him was the entertainment of the
expected guest. Never, since he could remember, had a stranger invaded
that little world where Miss Kippy lived her unreal life of dreams.
What effect would it have upon her? Would it be kinder to hide her away
as something he was ashamed of, or to let her appear and run the risk of
exposing her deficiency to uncaring eyes? During the months that he had
watched her, a fierce tenderness had sprung up in his heart. He had
become possessed of the hope that she might be rescued from her
condition. Night after night he patiently tried to teach her to read and
to write, stopping again and again to humor her whims and indulge her
foolish fancies. More than once he had surprised a new look in her eyes,
a sudden gleam of sanity, of frightened understanding; and at such times
she would cling to him for protection against that strange thing that
was herself.
As he trudged along, deep in thought, a white chrysanthemum fell at his
feet. Looking up, he discovered Miss Guinevere Gusty, in a red cloak and
hat, sitting on the bank with a band-box in her lap.
His troubles were promptly swallowed up in the heart-quake which
ensued; but his speech was likewise, and he stood foolishly opening and
shutting his mouth, unable to effect a sound.
"I am waiting for the packet to go down to Coreyville," announced Miss
Gusty, straightening her plumed hat, and smiling. "Mr. Gallop says it's
an hour late; but I don't care, it's such a grand day."
Mr. Opp removed his eyes long enough to direct an inquiring glance at
the heavens and the earth. "Is it?" he asked, finding his voice. "I been
so occupied with business that I haven't scarcely taken occasion to note
the weather."
"Why, it's all soft and warm, just like spring," she continued, holding
out her arms and looking up at the sky. "I've been wishing I had time to
walk along the river a piece."
"I'll take you," said Mr. Opp, eagerly. "We can hear the whistle of the
boat in amply sufficient time to get back. Besides, it is a hour late."