THE JUG AND MR. ARDMORE.
Mr. Thomas Ardmore, of New York and Ardsley, having seen his friend
Griswold depart, sought a book-shop where, as in many other book-shops
throughout the United States, he kept a standing order for any works
touching piracy, a subject which, as already hinted, had long afforded
him infinite diversion. He had several hours to wait for his train
to New Orleans, and he was delighted to find that the bookseller,
whom he had known only by correspondence, had just procured for him,
through the dispersion of a Georgia planter’s valuable library, that
exceedingly rare narrative, _The Golden Galleons of the Caribbean_, by
Dominguez y Pascual--a beautifully bound copy of the original Madrid
edition.
With this volume under his arm, Ardmore returned to the hotel where he
was lodged and completed his arrangements for leaving. It should be
known that Mr. Thomas Ardmore was a person of democratic tastes and
habits. In his New York house were two servants whose sole business
it was to keep himself and his wardrobe presentable; yet he preferred
to travel unattended. He was by nature somewhat secretive, and his
adventurous spirit rebelled at the thought of being followed about by a
hired retainer. His very wealth was, in a way, a nuisance, for wherever
he went the newspapers chronicled his movements, with speculations as
to the object of his visit, and dark hints at large public gifts which
the city honoured by his presence at once imagined would be bestowed
upon it forthwith. The American press constantly execrated his family,
and as he was sensitive to criticism he kept very much to himself.
It was a matter of deep regret to Ardmore that his great-grandfather,
whose name he bore, should have trifled with the morals of the red
men, but he philosophized that it was not his fault, and if he had
known how to squeeze the whisky from the Ardmore millions he would have
been glad to do so. His own affairs were managed by the Bronx Loan and
Trust Company, and Ardmore took little personal interest in any of his
belongings except his estate in North Carolina, where he dreamed his
dreams, and had, on the whole, a pretty good time.
When he had finished packing his trunk he went down to the dinner he
had ordered to be in readiness at a certain hour, at a certain table,
carefully chosen beforehand; for Ardmore was very exacting in such
matters, and had an eye to the comforts of life, as he understood them.
As he crossed the hotel lobby on his way to the restaurant he was
accosted by a reporter for the Atlanta _Palladium_, who began to
question him touching various Ardmores who were just then filling
rather more than their usual amount of space in the newspapers.
Ardmore’s family, with the single exception of his sister, Mrs.
Atchison, bored him immensely. His two brothers and another sister, the
Duchess of Ballywinkle, kept the family name in display type a great
deal of the time, and their performances had practically driven Thomas
Ardmore from New York. He felt keenly his shame in being brother-in-law
to a dissolute duke, and the threatened marriage of one of his brothers
to a chorus girl had added, he felt, all too great a burden to a family
tree whose roots, he could not forget it, were soaked in contraband
rum. The reporter was a well-mannered youth, and Ardmore shook his
hand encouragingly. He was rather curious to see what new incident
in the family history was to be the subject of inquisition, and the
reporter immediately set his mind at rest.
“Pardon me, Mr. Ardmore, but is it true that your sister, the Duchess
of Ballywinkle, has separated from the duke?”
“You may quote me as saying that while I am not quite sure, yet I
sincerely hope the reports are true. To be frank with you, I do not
like the duke; in fact, strictly between ourselves, I disliked him
from the first,” and Ardmore shook his head gravely, and meditatively
jingled the little gold pieces that he always carried in his trousers
pockets.
“Well, of course, I had heard that there was some trouble between you
and your brother-in-law, but can’t the _Palladium_ have your own exact
statement, Mr. Ardmore, of what caused the breach between you?”
Ardmore hesitated and turned his head cautiously.
“You understand, of course, that this discussion is painful to me,
extremely painful. And yet, so much has been published about my
sister’s domestic affairs----”
“Exactly, Mr. Ardmore. What we want is to print _your_ side of the
story.”
“Very decent of you, I’m sure. But the fact is”--and Ardmore glanced
over his shoulder again to be sure he was not overheard--“the fact
is----” and he paused, batting his eyes as though hesitating at the
point of an important disclosure.
“Yes, Mr. Ardmore,” encouraged the reporter.
“Well, I don’t mind telling _you_, but don’t print this. Let it be just
between ourselves.”
“Oh, of course, if you say not----”
“That’s all right; I have every confidence in your discretion; but if
this will go no further, I don’t mind telling you----”
“You may rely on me absolutely, Mr. Ardmore.”
“Then, with the distinct understanding that this is _sub rosa_--now we
_do_ understand each other, don’t we?” pleaded Ardmore.
“Perfectly, Mr. Ardmore,” and the perspiration began to bead the
reporter’s forehead in his excitement over the impending revelation.
“Then you shall know why I feel so bitter about the duke. I assure
you that nothing but the deepest chagrin over the matter causes me to
tell you what I have never revealed before--not even to members of my
family--not to my most intimate friend.”
“I appreciate all that----”
“Well, the fact is--but please never mention it--the fact is that his
Grace owes me four dollars. I gave it to him in two bills--I remember
the incident perfectly--two crisp new bills I had just got at the bank.
His Grace borrowed the money to pay a cabman--it was the very day
before he married my sister. Now let me ask you this: Can an American
citizen allow a duke to owe him four dollars? The villain never
referred to the matter again, and from that day to this I have made it
a rule never to lend money to a duke.”
The reporter stared a moment, then laughed. He abandoned the idea
of getting material for a sensational article and scented the
possibilities of a character sketch of the whimsical young millionaire.
“How about that story that your brother, Samuel Ardmore, is going to
marry the chorus girl he ran over in his automobile?”
“I hope it’s true; I devoutly do. I’m very fond of music myself, and,
strange to say, nobody in our family is musical. I think a chorus girl
would be a real addition to our family. It would bring up the family
dignity--you can see that.”
“The wires brought a story this afternoon that your cousin, Wingate
Siddall--he is your cousin, isn’t he?”
“I’m afraid so. What’s Siddy’s latest?”
“Why, it’s reported that he’s going to cross the Atlantic in a balloon.
Can you tell us anything about that from the inside?”
“Well, the ocean is only four miles deep; I’d take more interest in
Cousin Siddy’s ballooning if you could make it a couple of miles more
to the dead men’s chests. And now, much as I’d like to prolong this
conversation, I’ve got to eat or I’ll miss my train.”
“If you don’t mind saying where you are going, Mr. Ardmore?”
“I’d tell you in a minute, only I haven’t fully decided yet; but I
shall probably take the Sambo Flyer at 9.13, if you don’t make me lose
it.”
“You have large interests in Arkansas, I believe, Mr. Ardmore?”
“Yes; important interests. I’m searching for the original fiddle of the
Arkansaw Traveller. When I find it I’m going to give it to the British
Museum. And now you really must excuse me.”
Ardmore looked the reporter over carefully as they shook hands. He was
an attractive young fellow, alert and good-humoured, and Ardmore liked
him, as, in his shy way, he really liked almost every one who seemed to
be a human being.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do with you. If you’ll forget this rot we’ve
been talking and come up to Ardsley as soon as I get home, I’ll see
if I can’t keep you amused for a couple of weeks. I don’t offer that
as a bribe; my family affairs are of interest to nobody but hostlers
and kitchen-maids. Wire me at Ardsley when you’re ready, throw away
your lead-pencil, then come on and I’ll show you the finest collection
of books on Captain Kidd in the known world. What did you say your
name is? Collins--Frank Collins? I never forget anything, so don’t
disappoint me.”
“That’s mighty nice of you, but I don’t have much time for vacations,”
replied the reporter, who was, however, clearly pleased.
“If the office won’t give you a couple of weeks, wire me, and I’ll buy
the paper.”
The young man laughed outright. “I’ll remember; I really believe you
mean for me to come.”
“Of course I do. It’s all settled; make it next week. Good-bye!”
Ardmore ate his dinner oblivious of the fact that people at the
neighbouring tables turned to look at him. He overheard his name
mentioned, and a woman just behind him let it be known to her
companions and any one else who cared to hear that he was the
brother-in-law of the Duke of Ballywinkle. Another voice in the
neighbourhood kindly remarked that Ardmore was the only decent member
of the family, and that he was not the one whose wife had just left
him, nor yet the one who was going to marry the chorus girl whose
father kept a delicatessen shop in Hoboken. It is very sad to be
unable to dine without having family skeletons joggle one’s elbow, and
Ardmore was annoyed. The head waiter hung officiously near; the man who
served him was distressingly eager; and then the voice behind him rose
insistently:
“--worth millions and yet he can’t find anybody to eat with him.”
This was almost true, and a shadow passed across Ardmore’s face and his
eyes grew grave as he humbly reflected that he was indeed a pitiable
object. He waved away his plate and called for coffee, and at that
moment a middle-aged man appeared at the door, scanned the room for a
moment, and then threaded his way among the tables to Ardmore.
“I heard you were here and thought I’d look you up. How are you, Ardy?”
“Very well, thank you, Mr. Billings. Have you dined? Sorry; which way
are you heading?”
The newcomer had the bearing of a gentleman used to consideration. He
was, indeed, the secretary of the Bronx Loan and Trust Company, whose
business was chiefly the administration of the Ardmore estate, and
Ardmore knew him very well. He was afraid that Billings had traced him
to Atlanta for one of those business discussions which always vexed and
perplexed him so grievously, and the thought of this further depressed
his spirits. But the secretary at once eased his mind.
“I’m looking for a man, and I’m not good at the business. I’ve lost him
and I don’t understand it, I don’t understand it,” and the secretary
seemed to be half-musing to himself as he sat down and rested his arms
on the table.
“You might give me the job. I’m following a slight clue myself just at
present.”
The secretary, who had no great opinion of Ardmore’s mental capacity,
stared at the young man vacantly. Then it occurred to him that possibly
Ardmore might be of service.
“Have you been at Ardsley recently?” he asked.
“Left there only a few days ago.”
“You haven’t seen your governor lately, have you?”
“My governor?” Ardmore stared blankly. “Why, Mr. Billings, don’t you
remember that father’s dead?”
“I don’t mean your father, Ardy,” replied Billings, with the
exaggerated care of one who deals with extreme stupidity. “I mean the
Governor of North Carolina--one of the American states. Ardsley is
still in North Carolina, isn’t it?”
“Oh yes, of course. But bless your soul, I don’t know the governor. Why
should one?”
“I don’t know why, Ardy; but people sometimes do know governors and
find it useful.”
“I’m not in politics any more, Mr. Billings. What’s this person’s
name?”
“Dangerfield. Don’t you ever read the newspapers?” demanded the
secretary, striving to control his inner rage. He was in trouble, and
Ardmore’s opaqueness taxed his patience. And yet Tommy Ardmore had
given him less trouble than any other member of the Ardmore family.
The others galloped gaily through their incomes; Tommy was rapidly
augmenting his inheritance from sheer neglect or inability to scatter
his dividends.
“No; I quit reading newspapers after the noble Duke of Ballywinkle
didn’t break the bank at Monte Carlo that last time. I often wish, Mr.
Billings, that the Mohawks had scalped my great-grandfather before they
bought his whisky. That would have saved me the personal humiliation of
being brother-in-law to a duke.”
“You mustn’t be so thin-skinned. You pay the penalty of belonging to
one of the wealthiest families in America,” and Billings’s tone was
paternal.
“So I’ve heard, but I’m not so terribly proud of it. What about this
governor?”
“That’s what troubles me--what of the governor?” Billings
dropped his voice so that no one but Ardmore could hear. “He’s
missing--disappeared.”
“That’s the first interesting thing I ever heard of a governor doing,”
said Ardmore. “Tell me more.”
“He’s had a row with the Governor of South Carolina, at New Orleans.
I was to have met him here on an important matter of business this
afternoon, but he’s cleared out and nobody knows what’s become of him.
His daughter even, who was in New Orleans with him, doesn’t know where
he is.”
“When was she in New Orleans with him?” asked Ardmore, looking at his
watch.
“She--who?” asked Billings, annoyed.
“Why, the daughter!”
“I don’t know anything about the daughter, but if I could find her
father I’d give him a piece of my mind,” and the secretary’s face
flushed angrily.
“Well, I suppose she isn’t the one I’m looking for, anyhow,” said
Ardmore resignedly.
“I should hope not,” blurted Billings, who had not really taken in what
Ardmore said, but who assumed that it must necessarily be something
idiotic.
“She had fluffy hair,” persisted Ardmore to this serious-minded
gentleman whose life was devoted to the multiplication of the Ardmore
millions. Ardmore’s tone was that of a child who persists in babbling
inanities to a distracted parent.
“Better let girls alone, Tommy. Mrs. Atchison told me you were going to
marry Daisy Waters, and I should heartily approve the match.”
“Did Nellie tell you that? I wonder if she’s told Daisy yet? You’ll
have to excuse me now, for I’m taking the Sambo Flyer. I’d like to find
your governor for you; and if you’ll tell me when he was seen last----”
“Right here, just before noon to-day, and a couple of hours before I
reached town. His daughter either doesn’t know where he went or she
won’t tell.”
“Ah! the daughter! She remains behind to guard his retreat.”
“The daughter is still here. She’s a peppery little piece,” and
Billings looked guardedly around the room. “That’s she, alone over
there in the corner--the girl with the white feather in her hat who’s
just signing her check. There--she’s getting up!”
Ardmore gazed across the room intently, then suddenly a slight smile
played about his lips. To gain the door the girl must pass by his
table, and he scrutinized her closely as she drew near and passed.
She was a little girl, and her light fluffy hair swept out from under
a small blue hat in a shell-like curve, and the short skirt of her
tailor-made gown robbed her, it seemed, of years to which the calendar
might entitle her.
“She gave me the steadiest eye I ever looked into when I asked her
where her father had gone,” remarked Billings grimly as the girl
passed. “She said she thought he’d gone fishing for whales.”
“So she’s Miss Dangerfield, is she?” asked Ardmore indifferently; and
he rose, leaving on the plate, by a sudden impulse of good feeling
towards the world, exactly double the generous tip he had intended
giving. Billings was glad to be rid of Ardmore, and they parted in the
hotel lobby without waste of words. The secretary of the Bronx Loan
and Trust Company announced his intention of remaining another day in
Atlanta in the hope of finding Governor Dangerfield, and he was so
absorbed in his own affairs that he did not heed, if indeed he heard,
Ardmore’s promise to keep an eye out for the lost governor. Like most
other people, the secretary of the Bronx Loan and Trust Company did not
understand Ardmore, but Thomas Ardmore, having long ago found himself
ill-judged by the careless world, lived by standards of his own, and
these would have meant nothing whatever to Billings.
Ardmore’s effects had been brought down, and were already piled on a
carriage at the door. In his pocket were his passage to New Orleans and
a stateroom ticket. At the cashier’s desk Miss Dangerfield paid her
bill, just ahead of him.
“If any telegrams come for my father, please forward them to Raleigh,”
said the girl. The manager came out personally to show her to her
carriage, and having shut the door upon her, he wished Ardmore, who
stood discreetly by, a safe journey.
“Off for New Orleans, are you, Mr. Ardmore?” asked the manager
courteously.
“No,” said Ardmore, “I’m going to Raleigh to look at the tall
buildings,” whereat the manager returned to his duties, gravely shaking
his head.
At the station Ardmore caught sight of Miss Dangerfield, attended by
two porters, hurrying toward the Tar Heel Express. He bought a ticket
to Raleigh, and secured the last available berth from the conductor on
the platform at the moment of departure.
Ardmore did not like to be hurried, and this sudden change of plans had
been almost too much for him, but he was consoled by the reflection
that after all these years of waiting for just such an adventure he
had proved himself equal to an emergency that required quick thought
and swift action. He had not only found the girl with the playful eye,
but he had learned her identity without, as it were, turning over his
hand. Not even Griswold, who was the greatest man he knew--Griswold
with his acute legal mind and ability to carry through contests of wit
with lawyers of highest repute--not even Griswold, Ardmore flattered
himself, could have managed better.
The stateroom door stood open, and from his seat at the farther end of
the car Ardmore caught a fleeting glimpse of Miss Dangerfield as she
threw off her jacket and hat; then she summoned the porter, gave him
her tickets, bade him a smiling good-night, and the door closed upon
her. The broad grin on the porter’s face--a grin of delight, as though
he had spoken with some exalted deity--filled Ardmore with bitterest
envy.
He went back to smoke and plan his future movements. For the first
time in his life he faced to-morrow with eager anticipations, resolved
that nothing should thwart his high resolves, though these, to be
sure, were somewhat hazy. Then, from a feeling of great satisfaction,
his spirit reacted, and he regretted that he had been deprived of the
joy of prolonged search. If he could only have followed her until, at
the last moment, when about to give up for ever and accept the frugal
consolations of memory, he met her somewhere face to face! These
reflections led him to wonder whether he might not have been mistaken
about the wink after all. Griswold, with his wider knowledge of the
world, had scouted the idea. Very likely if one of those blue eyes
had actually winked at him it had been out of mere playfulness, and
he would never in the world refer to it when they met. Billings had
applied the term peppery to her, and he felt that he should always hate
Billings for this; Billings was only a financial automaton anyhow,
who bought at the lowest and sold at the highest, and bored one very
often with strangely-worded papers which one was never expected to
understand. He did not know why Billings was so anxious to find Miss
Dangerfield’s father, but as between a man of Billings’s purely
commercial instincts and the governor of a great state like North
Carolina, Ardmore resolved to stand by the Dangerfields to the end of
the chapter. He was proud to remember his estate at Ardsley, which
was in Governor Dangerfield’s jurisdiction, and had been visited by
the game warden, the state forester, and various other members of the
governor’s official household, though Ardmore could not remember their
names. He had never in his life visited Raleigh, but far down some dim
vista of memory he saw Sir Walter covering a mud-puddle with his cloak
for Queen Elizabeth. It was a picture of this moving incident in an
old history that rose before him, as he tried vainly to recall just
how it was that Sir Walter had lost his head. He wondered whether Miss
Dangerfield’s name was Elizabeth, though he hoped not, as the name
suggested a town in New Jersey where his motor had once broken down on
a rainy evening when he was carrying Griswold to Princeton to deliver a
lecture.
Ardmore smoked many pipes, and did not turn in until after midnight.
The car was hot and stuffy, and he slept badly. At some hour of the
morning, being again awake and restless, he fished his dressing-gown
and slippers out of his bag and went out on the rear platform. His was
the last car, and he found a camp-stool and crouched down upon it in a
corner of the vestibule and stared out into the dark. The hum and click
of the rails soothed him, and he yielded himself to pleasant reveries.
Griswold was well on his way back to Virginia, he remembered--“Dear
old Grissy!” he murmured; but he resolved to tell Griswold nothing of
the prosperous course of his quest. Griswold would never, he knew,
countenance so grave a performance as the following of a strange girl
to her home; but this would be something for later justification.
Ardmore was half-dozing when the train stopped so abruptly that he was
pitched from the camp-stool into a corner of the entry. He got himself
together and leaned out into the cool moist air.
The porter came out and stared, for a gentleman in a blue silk wrapper
who sat up all night in a vestibule was new to his experience.
“What place is this, porter?”
“Kildare, sah. This place is wha’ we go from South C’lina into No’th
C’lina. Ain’t yo’ be’th comfor’ble, sah?”
“Perfectly, thank you.”
Kildare was a familiar name, and the station, that lay at the outskirts
of the town, and a long grim barracks-like building that he identified
as a cotton mill, recalled the fact that he was not far from his own
ample acres which lay off somewhere to westward. He had occasionally
taken this route from the north in going to Ardsley, riding or driving
from Kildare about ten miles to his house. In this way he was enabled
to go or come without appearing at all in the little village of Ardsley.
The porter left him. He felt ready for sleep now, and resolved to go
back to bed as soon as the train started. Just then a dark shadow
appeared in the track, and a man’s voice asked cautiously,--
“Air y’u the conductor?”
The questioner saw that he was not, before Ardmore could reply, and
hesitated a moment.
“The porter’s in the car; you can get aboard up forward,” Ardmore
suggested.
“Be Gov’nor Dangerfield on this train?” asked the man, whom Ardmore now
saw dimly outlined in the track below.
“Certainly, my friend. The governor’s asleep, but I’m his private
secretary. What can I do for you?”
“Well, hyeh’s somethin’ fer ’im--it’s confidential. Sure, air ye, th’
gov’nor’s in they?”
The man--a tall, bearded countryman in a slouch hat, handed up to
Ardmore a jug--a plain, brown, old-fashioned American gallon jug.
“It’s a present fer Gov’nor Dangerfield. He’ll understand,” and the man
vanished as mysteriously as he had appeared, leaving Ardmore holding
the jug by its handle, and feeling a little dazed by the transaction.
The train lingered, and Ardmore was speculating as to which one of the
Carolina commonwealths was beneath him, when another figure appeared
below in the track--that of a bareheaded, tousled boy this time. He
stared up at Ardmore sleepily, having apparently been roused on the
arrival of the train.
“Air y’u the gov’nor?” he piped.
“Yes, my lad; in what way can I serve you?” and Ardmore put down his
jug and leaned over the guard rail. It was just as easy to be the
governor as the governor’s private secretary, and his vanity was
touched by the readiness with which the boy accepted him in his new
_rôle_. His costume, vaguely discernible in the vestibule light,
evidently struck the lad as being some amazing robe of state affected
by governors. The youngster was lifting something, and he now held up
to Ardmore a jug, as like the other as one pea resembles another.
“Pa ain’t home, and ma says hyeh’s yer jug o’ buttermilk.”
“Thank you, my lad. While I regret missing your worthy father, yet I
beg to present my compliments to your kind and thoughtful mother.”
He had transferred his money to his dressing-gown pocket on leaving his
berth, and he now tossed a silver dollar to the boy, who caught it with
a yell of delight and scampered off into the night.
Ardmore had dropped the jugs carelessly into the vestibule, and he
was surveying them critically when the train started. The wheels were
beginning to grind reluctantly when a cry down the track arrested his
attention. A man was flying after the train, shouting at the top of his
lungs. He ran, caught hold of the rail, and howled,--
“The gov’nor ain’t on they! Gimme back my jug.”
“Indian-giver!” yelled Ardmore. He stooped down, picked up the first
jug that came to hand, and dropped it into the man’s outstretched arms.
The porter, having heard voices, rushed out upon Ardmore, who held the
remaining jug to the light, scrutinizing it carefully.
“Please put this away for me, porter. It’s a little gift from an old
army friend.”
Then Mr. Ardmore returned to his berth, fully pleased with his
adventures, and slept until the porter gave warning of Raleigh.