Now, under ordinary circumstances, Mr. Rittenhouse Smith would have
obeyed his wife's orders cheerfully and promptly; but on this
particular day there was a flurry in the stock-market (Mr. Smith was a
stock-broker), and every minute that he was away from his office exposed
him to serious business danger. At what he considered to be the safest
moments, he made no less than five sallies after as many different men;
and three of these had engagements for the evening, and two of them were
out of town. What with the condition of the stock-market and the gloomy
outlook for the dinner-party, Mr. Smith, albeit he was ordinarily a
calm, sedate man, was almost distraught.
Three o'clock brought a prospect of relief, but after a day of such
active dealing his books could not be settled hurriedly. In point of
fact, when at last he was able to leave his Third Street office the
State House clock was striking five; and the dinner, in accordance
with Philadelphia custom, was to be at seven! He knew that his wife had
discharged into his hands the matter of procuring the needed man; and he
knew that this line of action on her part had been both right and wise;
but he groaned in spirit, as he thought how dreadful a responsibility
was his!
Mr. Smith was a methodical man, and in the calmness partly bred of his
naturally orderly habits, and partly bred of his despair, he seated
himself at his desk, in company with a comforting cigar, to think of any
possible men whom he might beat up at their homes as he went westward.
While he thus meditated--and while blackness settled down upon his soul,
for of none could he think available for his purpose--he looked idly
at the list of hotel arrivals in the morning paper that chanced to lie
beside him; and suddenly he arose with a great shout of joy, for in this
list he beheld the name, "Van R. Livingstone."
Here, indeed, was good-fortune at last! Van Rensselaer Livingstone was
in college with him, in his own class, at Harvard. They had been capital
friends while their college life lasted; and although Livingstone had
spent the last ten or twelve years in Europe, they had not wholly lost
track of each other. Clever, handsome, well-born, and well-bred, he was
everything that the present occasion required. He seemed to have been
sent from heaven direct. In twenty minutes Mr. Smith was asking for him
at his hotel.
"Mr. Livingstone? Mr. Livingstone is out."
"Did he leave any word as to when he would come in?"
"Yes, sir. He said that a gentleman might call, and to say that he
certainly would be back at six, and would not go out again to-night."
Mr. Smith looked at his watch--it was 5:30. Had there been any
uncertainty as to Livingstone's return, he would have waited. But it
was clear that he was coming back to dine at his hotel, and to spend the
evening there. A note, therefore, could be trusted to do the business,
and by writing, instead of waiting, Mr. Smith would save half an hour;
moreover, if he waited, he would not have time to make the mayonnaise.
Probably it is only in Philadelphia that it ever occurs nowadays to the
master of a feast to dress the salad; which, doubtless, is the reason
why a better salad is served at certain dinner-tables in Philadelphia
than at any other dinner-tables in the whole world.
The thought of the mayonnaise settled the matter. Mr. Smith hastily
wrote an account of the trying situation, and concluded his note with a
solemn demand upon "dear old Van" to fill the vacant place, "in the holy
name of the class of '68, and for love of your old classmate, R. Smith."