THE SKINNERS
Jim Mayberry was smoking his second cigarette when a girl came out of
the main door of the factory offices. She was a slim, rather startled
looking girl. Her flaxen hair was pulled back so tightly as to raise
her eyebrows perceptibly; this opened very wide her eyes and seemed
even to pull the point of her nose up a little and raise her upper lip
to display two little rabbit teeth.
“Hello, Skinner,” said the superintendent. “Isn’t Ethel ’most ready?”
“Hello, Jim Mayberry,” responded the girl, who felt no obligation to
show the superintendent any particular respect outside the factory.
“Going to take me home in your flivver?”
“Aren’t you afraid to ride with me?” asked the man with a slow smile.
“Nope. You try to get funny with _me_ and I’ll scratch your eyes out.”
“My!” drawled Mayberry, “aren’t you the catty thing?”
“You’d think so,” rejoined the flat-chested girl with all the strutting
boastfulness of a boy. “No feller’s ever going to kiss _me_ if I don’t
want him to.”
“I bet you!” agreed the superintendent with mock admiration. “But
where’s Ethel?”
“You aren’t waiting for her, are you, Jim?” the slim girl asked,
giggling.
“I thought I was.”
“Then there’s another thought coming to you,” declared the delighted
Skinner. “Ethel went long ago--out through the side gate. Guess she
must have suspected you’d be waiting here.”
Mayberry uttered a brief and impolite expletive. That did not trouble
Mabel Skinner. She lived in a house full of rough men. Her mother was
dead and an older sister kept house for the Skinners. The children of
Sam Skinner had not been brought up according to the Puritan acceptance
of the term. Like Topsy, they had “just growed.”
“She wouldn’t ride in that flivver with you anyway,” Mabel Skinner
added. “But I would.”
“Jump in, then, Little Skinner,” the superintendent said, without
further advertising his chagrin.
“I hope my Sunday School teacher won’t see me,” the girl observed,
getting in beside him quickly. “If she does she will know I am riding
fast to perdition. And _do_ make your old rattle-bang go as fast as
possible, Jim. I just love to scoot over the road. Gee, if I’d only
been made a boy instead of a girl, I’d have been a jockey.”
“Hear the girl!” chuckled Mayberry, who was really after all too
good-natured to be spiteful to his guest. “You’ll be up in one of
these flying machines yet.”
“Oh, that would be grand! I’d go to France and join the flying corps.
That girl from Texas that got over there with the first batch of Yankee
soldiers--did you read about her? They got on to her and sent her back.
That’s because she got married to one of the buddies. Catch _me_! I
wouldn’t marry the best man alive.”
“You won’t,” prophesied Jim Mayberry, still chuckling.
“Smartie! Anyhow, I wouldn’t fall for any man I’ve ever seen yet. Not
even Mr. Barton,” she added, as though there might be some doubt in her
mind about the general manager.
“Humph! who has fallen for him?” demanded the superintendent
suspiciously.
“Every girl in town but me,” declared Mabel Skinner promptly, but
grinning impishly, “He’s an awfully nice man, is Mr. Barton.”
“Yes. I’d fall for him myself if I were a girl, I guess,” Mayberry
agreed.
“Yes--you--would! Say, that’s my corner!”
“I know. But I’m going to spin you around the reservoir and bring you
home the other way.”
“Oh, bully!” ejaculated the girl, fairly jumping in her seat. “I’m
being run away with by a man. Never thought it would happen to me. I
really wish you wasn’t so trifling, Jim Mayberry. I’d maybe sue you
for breach of promise.”
“Then I’m safe, am I?” he asked.
“As far as I am concerned you are. I wouldn’t really marry you on a
bet, Jim. Don’t you know that?”
He was highly amused. Mabel Skinner’s tart tongue always delighted him.
She lived in one of the poorer quarters of the town. When he finally
brought the machine into her street it created a sensation. People
left their supper tables to see Mabel Skinner brought home in the
superintendent’s car.
“What’s the matter, Mab? Broke a leg?” demanded one lout of a boy, with
an impudent grin for Mayberry, and who was just slipping out of the
Skinners’ gate. This was “Boots” Skinner, next younger of the clan than
Mabel.
“Both of ’em, or you wouldn’t catch me ruining my reputation riding
home with Mr. Mayberry. Don’t tell anybody, Boots.”
The superintendent of the Hapwood-Diller factory found that it was he
who felt some confusion in bringing Mabel home. The latter took her
time in getting out of the car.
“I’m awfully much obliged to you, Mr. Mayberry,” she said, in a shrill
and penetrating voice, so that the interested neighbors could all hear.
“I don’t know what I should have done if you hadn’t brought me. Walked,
I guess. Well! ‘Over the river!’”
She popped into the house before he could get the starter into action
under the fire of the neighbors’ chuckles. They all knew Mabel Skinner;
and most of them had sized up Jim Mayberry for what he was, too.
Mayberry drove down into Mailsburg’s business quarter and stopped
before the Bellevue Hotel. He often took his dinner there and spent the
evening, as well, in some upper room where there were shaded lights,
much cigar smoke, the clink of glasses and the rattle of poker chips.
The superintendent had been born and brought up in Mailsburg, as Frank
Barton had been; but his family was now scattered. He and Barton had
been the closest of chums at school. Mayberry owned quite as bright
a mind as the general manager of the Hapwood-Diller Company; but he
lacked the balance of his friend.
Had it not been for the inspiration of Barton’s companionship and
example Mayberry would never have obtained the eminence he had in the
factory. In truth, his old chum had actually boosted Mayberry into
the superintendent’s job after having been himself elected manager of
the concern. Not that Mayberry was not well fitted for this position.
But he lacked that quality of ambition to have gained it for himself
without Frank Barton’s good offices. At that, he lacked the grace of
gratitude.
The Bellevue was the gathering place of the sporting men of the town.
When Mayberry came out from dinner, Mr. Grandon Fuller occupied one of
the easy chairs on the porch. Fuller’s taste for society was not like
that of his wife and daughter. He was a big, pursy man with a shock of
white hair and a ruddy countenance. He had a hail-fellow-well-met air
for most occasions, and his jovial manner made him popular with most
people. In local politics he had some prominence.
“Hey, young man!” he called to Mayberry, “you’ve no engagement, have
you? Smith is getting up a party for a little game. Will you join us?”
“Not to-night, Colonel,” returned the superintendent, giving Fuller a
handle to his name that always delighted the rich man. He had been on
the governor’s staff once. “I am sorry. I have an appointment.”
“Tut, tut! can’t you let the girls alone for one night, Son?” and
Fuller’s laugh was unctuous.
“’Pon my word it’s business.”
“Thought nobody had to trouble their heads about business up at the
factory except Barton?”
“But Barton may not be there always,” laughed the superintendent,
although the suggestion of the manager’s omnipotence did not please
him. Everybody praised Frank Barton’s business acumen. Mayberry, being
Barton’s close friend, knew just how weak the fellow really was! This
was Mayberry’s thought; but he made no display of this feeling, saying:
“It really is business, Colonel. I am sorry not to be able to join you
and the other gentlemen. But we really all have to work up there at the
factory. Barton may get the bulk of the credit. You know how it is when
a fellow once gets into the limelight.”
“Yes,” chuckled Fuller. “But they tell me a lime never gets into the
limelight. Don’t tell me Frank Barton is to be counted among the citrus
fruit.”
“Never!” responded Mayberry. “But, then, there are others working for
the Hapwood-Diller Company too who are not lemons. Good-night.”
He went down the steps whistling cheerfully and Mr. Fuller looked
quizzically after him.
“Bright young fellow, just the same,” murmured the man. “Perhaps may be
made more useful, even, than Barton. But I fear neither Helen nor the
wife would stand for _him_ as a dinner guest; whereas, Barton----”
These cryptic observations were unheard by Mayberry of course. And the
frown on his brow belied his cheerful whistle and airy remarks to Mr.
Fuller. He got into his car, started it, and drove away from the hotel
with the secret feeling that he would enjoy running over a dog.
He kept on through the old part of Mailsburg and down past the docks
and over the Stone Bridge. The creek was a wide, oilily flowing
stream--save in the time of the spring freshets. He took the Creek
Road and rolled easily out of town and along past the farms and wooded
strips which intervened between Mailsburg and Norville.
He drove slowly and looked at the illuminated dial of the clock before
him frequently. It was plain that he had a rendezvous here in the open.
Some one has said: “If you have a secret to tell, select the middle
of a ten-acre lot.” Mayberry’s appointment suggested secrecy, for he
finally stopped near the bank of the creek with an open, sloping field
on the other hand, and no cover but a rock beside the road.
There was shadow enough about the rock, however, to protect the figure
of a man on the landward side. But the scent of his tobacco permeated
the air.
“Hello, Blaisdell?” Jim Mayberry said quietly and questioningly, having
brought his car to a stop just opposite this rock.
“Welcome, dear boy,” was the prompt reply. The waiting man stretched
his long limbs and came out of the shadow, still puffing his pipe, to
rest a foot upon the step of the car. Mayberry lit a cigarette and
pinched out the glowing end of the match before dropping it. “What’s
the news?” asked Blaisdell.
“Kind of bad--for you and me,” Mayberry admitted.
“What do you mean? Doesn’t that order go through?”
“It may not. I’m no intriguer, Blaisdell. I can keep you informed; but
I am not up in diplomacy. Barton has heard some yarn about you fellows.
He is for turning the order down--flat.”
“Can’t you influence him? I thought you and he were thicker than the
hair on a dog’s neck.”
“We’ve always been chums,” drawled Mayberry. “That doesn’t give me any
hold over Frank’s processes of reasoning. And he can talk me off my
feet. I didn’t agree to do the impossible, Blaisdell. If the order goes
through the best I can do is to rush it.”
“Yet you expect to get your rake-off,” sneered the other.
“That’s my legitimate graft. It’s for letting everything go through
smoothly. You know, in my position, I can favor your company,
Blaisdell.”
“It doesn’t seem that you can--not if this order clogs the chute. I am
frank to tell you, Jim, we’ve got to get those goods without question
or we shall be in untold trouble.”
“Ye-as,” drawled the superintendent, “so I inferred. That is what is
bothering Barton. He seems to be wise to the state of your credit.”
“He doesn’t _know_ it,” snapped the other. “He only suspects. Nobody
knows it but Billings, Hempstead, me and--you.”
“And I’m sitting tight and saying nothing. I want my rake-off on the
order of course--By jinks, I _need_ it! Money is as scarce with me
just now as gold filling in a hen’s teeth.”
“Then do something to help us,” urged Blaisdell.
“I’ll do all I can. If I were in charge--Oh, well! I _could_ do
something in that case.”
“Say! any chance of that happening?” demanded the other and with
eagerness.
“I--don’t--know. There may be. Frank has got the war fever. Fact! Any
fellow that got exempted as easy as he did----”
“By the way,” asked Blaisdell, “how did you get past the board?”
“Conscientious objector,” replied Mayberry glibly. “Sure! My mother and
father were Quakers and I often attended the Friends’ Meeting House,”
and he laughed.
“You are a liar, Jim,” said the other frankly. “The Quakers are putting
their young men into the Red Cross and all such work. That claim
don’t go. I believe it cost you money. Doc Flammer has bought a new
runabout--and it’s a better car than you drive, Jim. I believe that
foxy medico knows how to feather his nest.”
“I really have a bad heart,” said the superintendent of the
Hapwood-Diller Company seriously. “Quite a murmur. You can hear it
sometimes without the stethoscope.”
“But the doc never advised you to cut out the tobacco, did he?” drily
queried Blaisdell, as Mayberry lit another cigarette at the coal of
his first. “Now, see here, to get back to biz: You say Barton has the
fever?”
“He’s wanted to go all along. You should hear him talk! He makes me
sick!” scoffed the superintendent. “If he should go I shall step into
his shoes _pro tem_. He wants to go to the officers’ training camp
at Lake Quehasset. _Then_ I might be able to help you fellows--and
myself--Blaisdell.”
“You think Barton will immediately turn down our order? Before he goes
away--if he does go?”
“I believe he has already.” Mayberry gave no particulars, but he spoke
of the letter the manager of the Hapwood-Diller Company had ordered
written that afternoon. It was not to his advantage to say anything
about Ethel Clayton and the confidence Barton had in her good sense and
ability.
“Postpone the sending of that letter, Jim,” said Blaisdell hastily. “It
has not left the office yet, has it?”
“I do not believe so. It was too late for the last mail,” Mayberry
agreed. But he was puzzled.
“I’ll tell you what I mean,” Blaisdell said, leaning nearer to the
superintendent. He laid a hand upon the latter’s shoulder. His lips
were close to Mayberry’s ear. Nobody could have heard then what he
said, not if they had been at Blaisdell’s elbow. And there was nobody
so near. A few minutes later the superintendent turned his car and
started back toward Mailsburg while Blaisdell strolled away in the
opposite direction. Then it was that a cramped figure rolled out from
the shadow on the creek side of the great rock.
“Those two chumps purty near made me late setting my lines,” observed
Boots Skinner under his breath. “The moon’ll be up in a few minutes and
then mebbe I’d git nabbed.
“Old Man Hammerly says that if I’m caught doing this ag’in he’ll give
me all the laws allows--an’ then some. The old jackdaw! I bet he never
gits the chance.
“That’s the way. Ain’t no chance for a poor feller, jest as dad says.
Such rich chaps as them two can plan to do all the devilment that they
want, and nobody dast touch ’em. But me! I ain’t let to ketch a mess
o’ fish in peace. Huh! Jest the same, me an’ dad will have a fish-fry
for breakfast,” and he grinned in the darkness, carefully baiting his
hooks.