MR. ARDMORE OFFICIALLY RECOGNIZED.
“She never did it; she never, never did!”
Mr. Ardmore, from a bench in the State House Park, thus concluded a
long reverie. It was late afternoon, and he had forgotten luncheon in
his absorption. There was no manner of use in recurring again to that
episode of the lonely siding. He had found the girl--indubitably the
girl--but not the wink! Miss Jerry Dangerfield was not the winking
sort; he was well satisfied on that point, and so thoroughly ashamed
into the bargain that he resolved to lead a different life and be very
heedful of the cry of the poor in the future. His emotions had never
been taxed as to-day, and he hoped that he might never again suffer the
torture he had experienced as he waited in the governor’s drawing-room
for Miss Dangerfield to appear. After that agony it had been a positive
relief to be ordered out of the house. Her anger when she caught him
lying about having met her father in New Orleans was superior to any
simulated rage he had ever seen on the stage, and no girl with a
winking eye would be capable of it. He was not clever; he knew that;
but if he had had the brains of a monkey he would not have risked his
foolish wits against those of a girl like Geraldine Dangerfield, who
had led him into an ambush and then shot him to pieces.
“She threatened to have the servants throw me out!” he groaned. And
her slight, tense figure rose before him, and her voice, still the
voice of young girlhood, rang in his ears. As she read the threatening
message from Kildare he had noted the fineness of her hands, the curve
of her fair cheek, the wayward curls on her forehead, and he remembered
all these things now, but more than anything else her wrath, the tiny
fists, the flashing eyes as she confronted him. As he sat dejectedly on
his park bench he was unaware that Miss Geraldine Dangerfield, walking
hurriedly through the park on her way from the governor’s mansion
to the state house, passed directly behind him. His attitude was so
eloquent of despair that it could not have failed to move a much harder
heart than that of Miss Dangerfield, yet she made no sign; but a few
minutes later the private secretary came out on the steps of the state
house, and after a brief survey of the landscape crossed the lawn and
called Ardmore by name.
“I beg your pardon, but Miss Dangerfield wished me to say that she’d
like to see you for a minute. She’s at the governor’s office.”
A prisoner, sentenced to death, and unexpectedly reprieved with the
rope already on his neck, could not experience greater relief than that
which brought Mr. Thomas Ardmore to his feet.
“You are sure of it--that there’s no mistake?”
“Certainly not. Miss Dangerfield told me I was to bring you back.”
Enthroned at the secretary’s desk, a mass of papers before her, Miss
Geraldine Dangerfield awaited him. He was ready to place his head on
the block in sheer contrition for his conduct, but she herself took the
initiative, and her tone was wholly amiable.
“This morning, Mr. Ardmore----”
“Oh, please forget this morning!” he pleaded.
“But I was rude to you; I threatened to have you thrown out of the
house; and you had come to do us a favour.”
“Miss Dangerfield, I cannot lie to you. You are one of the most
difficult persons to lie to that I have ever met. I didn’t come to
Raleigh just to warn your father that his life was threatened. I can’t
lie to you about that----”
“Then you _are_ a spy?” and Miss Dangerfield started forward in her
chair so suddenly that Ardmore dropped his hat.
“No! I am not a spy! I don’t care anything about your father. I never
heard of him until yesterday.”
“Well, I like that!” ejaculated Miss Dangerfield.
“Oh, I mean that I wasn’t interested in him--why should I be? I don’t
know anything about politics.”
“Neither does father. That’s why he’s governor. If he were a politician
he’d be a senator. But”--and she folded her hands and eyed him
searchingly--“here’s a lot of telegrams from the sheriff of Dilwell
County about that jug. How on earth did you come to get it?”
“Lied, of course. I allowed them to think I was intimately associated
in business with the governor, and they began passing me jugs. Then the
man who gave the jug with that message in the cork got suspicious, and
I dropped the buttermilk jug back to him.”
“You traded buttermilk for moonshine?”
“I shouldn’t exactly call it moonshine. It’s more like dynamite than
anything else. I’ve written a reply to the note and put it back in the
cork, and I’m going to return it to Kildare.”
“What answer did you make to that infamous effort to intimidate my
father?” demanded Miss Dangerfield.
“I told the Appleweight gang that they are a lot of cowards, and that
the governor will have them all in jail or hanged within ten days.”
“Splendid! Perfectly _splendid_! Did you really say that?”
“What else could I do? I knew that that’s what the governor would
say--he’d have to say it--so I thought I’d save him the trouble.”
“Where’s the jug now, Mr. Ardmore?”
“In my room at the hotel. The gang must have somebody on guard here.
A gentleman who seemed to be one of them called on me this morning,
demanding the jug; and if he’s the man I think he is, he’s stolen the
little brown jug from my room in the hotel by this time.”
Miss Dangerfield had picked up a spool of red tape, and was unwinding
it slowly in her fingers and rewinding it. They were such nice little
hands, and so peaceful in their aimless trifling with the tape that
he was sure his eyes had betrayed him into imagining she had clenched
them in the quiet drawing-room at the mansion. This office, now that
its atmosphere enveloped him, was almost as domestic as the house in
which she lived. The secretary had vanished, and a Sabbath quiet was on
the place. The white inner shutters swung open, affording a charming
prospect of the trees, the lawn, and the monument in the park outside.
And pleasantest of all, and most soothing to his weary senses, she was
tolerating him now; she had even expressed approval of something he had
done, and he had never hoped for this. She had not even pressed him to
disclose his real purpose in visiting Raleigh, and he prayed that she
would not return to this subject, for he had utterly lost the conceit
of his own lying gift. Miss Dangerfield threw down the spool of tape
and bent toward him gravely.
“Mr. Ardmore, can you keep a secret?”
“Nobody ever tried me with one, but I think I can, Miss Dangerfield,”
he murmured humbly.
“Then please stand up.”
And Ardmore rose, a little sheepishly, like a school-boy who fears
blame and praise alike. Miss Dangerfield lifted one of the adorable
hands solemnly.
“I, acting governor of North Carolina, hereby appoint you my private
secretary, and may God have mercy on your soul. You may now sit down,
Mr. Secretary.”
“But I thought there was a secretary already. And besides, I don’t
write a very good hand,” Ardmore stammered.
“I am just sending Mr. Bassford to Atlanta to find papa. He’s already
gone, or will be pretty soon.”
“But I thought your father would be home to-night.”
Miss Dangerfield looked out of the open window upon the park, then into
the silent outer hall, to be sure she was not overheard.
“Papa will not be at home to-night, or probably to-morrow night, or
the night afterward. I’m not sure we’ll wait next Christmas dinner for
papa.”
“But, of course, you know where he is! It isn’t possible----” and
Ardmore stared in astonishment into Miss Dangerfield’s tranquil blue
eyes.
“It _is_ possible. Papa is ducking his official responsibilities.
That’s what’s the matter with papa! And I guess they’re enough to drive
any man into the woods. Just look at all this!”
Miss Dangerfield rested one of those diminutive hands of hers on the
pile of documents, letters, and telegrams the secretary had left behind
him; with a nod of the head she indicated the governor’s desk in the
inner room, and it too was piled high with documents.
“I supposed,” faltered Ardmore, “that in the absence of the governor
the lieutenant-governor would act. I think I read that once.”
“You must have read it wrong, Mr. Ardmore. In North Carolina, in the
absence of the governor, I am governor! Don’t look so shocked; when I
say I, I mean I--_me!_ Do you understand what I said?”
“I heard what you said, Miss Dangerfield.”
“I mean what I said, Mr. Ardmore. I have taken you into my confidence
because I don’t know you. I don’t know anything about you. I don’t
want to know anything about you. I’d be ashamed to ask anybody I know
to help me. The people of North Carolina must never know that the
governor is absent during times of great public peril. And if _you_ are
afraid, Mr. Ardmore, you had better not accept the position.”
“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you,” blurted Ardmore.
“I’m not asking you--I _would_ not ask you--to do anything for me. I
am asking you to do it for the Old North State. Our relations, Mr.
Ardmore, will not be social, but purely official. Do you accept the
terms?”
“I do; and I warn you now that I shall never resign.”
“I have heard papa say that life is short and the tenure of office
uncertain. I can remove you at any time I please. Now do you understand
that this is a serious business? There’s likely to be a lot of trouble,
and no time for asking questions, so when I say it’s so it’s so.”
“It’s so,” repeated Ardmore docilely.
“Now, here’s the sheriff at Kildare, on our side of the line, who
writes to say that he is powerless to catch Appleweight. He’s afraid of
the dark, that man! You see, the grand jury in Dilwell County--that’s
Kildare, you know--has indicted Appleweight as a common outlaw, but
the grand jurors were all friends of Appleweight, and the indictment
was only to satisfy law-and-order sentiment and appease the Woman’s
Civic League of Raleigh. Now, papa doesn’t--I mean _I_ don’t want to
offend those Appleweight people by meddling in this business. Papa
wants Governor Osborne to arrest Appleweight in South Carolina; but I
don’t believe Governor Osborne will dare do anything about it. Now,
Mr. Ardmore, I am not going to have papa called a coward by anybody,
particularly by South Carolina people, after what Governor Osborne said
of our state.”
“Why, what did he say?”
“He said in a speech at Charleston last winter that no people who
fry their meat can ever amount to anything, and he meant us! I can
never forgive him for that; besides, his daughter is the stuck-upest
thing! And I’d like Barbara Osborne to tell me how _she_ got into the
Colonial Dames, and what call _she_ has to be inspector-general of
the Granddaughters of the Mexican War; for I’ve heard my grandfather
Dangerfield say many a time that old Colonel Osborne and his South
Carolina regiment never did go outside of Charleston until the war was
over and the American army had come back home.”
One tiny fist this time! Ardmore was sure of it. Her indignation
against the Osbornes was so sincere, the pouting petulance to which it
diminished so like a child’s, and the gravity of the offence so novel
in his simple experiences, that Ardmore was bound in chains before her
speech was finished. The little drawl with which she concluded gave
heightened significance to her last three words, so that it seemed that
all the veterans of the war with Mexico trudged by, bearing the flag of
North Carolina and no other banner.
“Governor Osborne is a contemptible ruffian,” declared Ardmore, with
deep feeling.
Miss Dangerfield nodded judicial approval, and settled back in her
chair the better to contemplate her new secretary, and said,--
“I’m a Daughter of the Confederacy and a Colonial Dame. What are you?”
“I suppose you’ll never speak to me again; papa sent three expensive
substitutes to the Civil War.”
“Three! Horrible!”
“Two of them deserted, and one fell into the Potomac on his way south
and was drowned. I guess they didn’t do you folks much harm.”
“We’ll forgive you that; but what did your ancestors do in the
Revolution?”
“I’m ashamed to say that my great-grandfather was a poor guesser. He
died during Washington’s second administration still believing the
Revolution a failure.”
“Do you speak of the war of 1861 as the Rebellion or as the war between
the states? I advise you to be careful what you say,” and Miss Jerry
Dangerfield was severe.
“I don’t believe I ever mentioned it either way, so I’m willing to take
your word for it.”
“The second form is correct, Mr. Ardmore. When well-bred Southern
people say Rebellion they refer to the uprising of 1776 against the
British oppressor.”
“Good. I’m sure I shall never get them mixed. Now that you are the
governor, what are you going to do first about Appleweight?”
“I’ve written--that is to say, papa wrote before he went away--a strong
letter to Governor Osborne, complaining that Appleweight was hiding
in South Carolina and running across the state line to rob and murder
people in North Carolina. Papa told Governor Osborne that he must break
up the Appleweight crowd, or he would do something about it himself.
It’s a splendid letter; you would think that even a coward like
Governor Osborne would do something after getting such a letter.”
“Didn’t he answer the letter?”
“Answer it? He never got it! Papa didn’t send it; that’s the reason!
Papa’s the kindest man in the world, and he must have been afraid of
hurting Governor Osborne’s feelings. He wrote the letter, expecting to
send it, but when he went off to New Orleans he told Mr. Bassford to
hold it till he got back. He had even signed it--you can read it if you
like.”
It was undoubtedly a vigorous epistle, and Ardmore felt the thrill
of its rhetorical sentences as he read. The official letter paper on
which it was typewritten, and the signature of William Dangerfield,
governor of North Carolina, affixed in a bold hand, were sobering in
themselves. The dignity and authority of one of the sovereign American
states was represented here, and he handed the paper back to Miss
Dangerfield as tenderly as though it had been the original draft of
Magna Charta.
“It’s a corker, all right.”
“I don’t much like the way it ends. It says, right here”--and she bent
forward and pointed to the place under criticism--“it says, ‘Trusting
to your sense of equity, and relying upon a continuance of the
traditional friendship between your state and mine, I am, sir, awaiting
your reply, very respectfully, your obedient servant.’ Now, I wouldn’t
trust to his sense of anything, and that traditional friendship
business is just fluffy nonsense, and I wouldn’t be anybody’s obedient
servant. I decided when I wasn’t more than fifteen years old, with a
lot of other girls in our school, that when we got married we’d never
say obey, and we never have, though only three of our class are married
yet, but we’re all engaged.”
“Engaged?”
“Of course; we’re engaged. I’m engaged to Rutherford Gillingwater, the
adjutant-general of this state. You couldn’t be my private secretary if
I wasn’t engaged; it wouldn’t be proper.”
The earth was only a flying cinder on which he strove for a foothold.
She had announced her engagement to be married with a cool finality
that took his breath away; and not realizing the chaos into which she
had flung him, she returned demurely to the matter of the letter.
“We can’t change that letter, because it’s signed close to the
‘obedient servant,’ and there’s no room. But I’m going to put it into
the typewriter and add a postscript.”
She sat down before the machine and inexpertly rolled the sheet into
place; then, with Ardmore helping her to find the keys, she wrote:
I demand an imediate reply.
“_Demand_ and _immediate_ are both business words. Are you sure
there’s only one _m_ in immediate? All right, if you know. I reckon a
postscript like that doesn’t need to be signed. I’ll just put ‘W. D.’
there with papa’s stub pen, so it will look really fierce. Now, you’re
the secretary; you copy it in the copying press and I’ll address the
envelope.”
“Don’t you have to put the state seal on it?” asked Ardmore.
“Of course not. You have to get that from the secretary of state, and I
don’t like him; he has such funny whiskers, and calls me little girl.
Besides, you never put the seal on a letter; it’s only necessary for
official documents.”
She bade him give the letter plenty of time to copy, and talked
cheerfully while he waited. She spoke of her friends, as Southern
people have a way of doing, as though every one must of course know
them--a habit that is illuminative of that delightful Southern
neighbourliness that knits the elect of a commonwealth into a single
family, that neither time and tide nor sword and brand can destroy.
Ardmore’s humility increased as the names of the great and good of
North Carolina fell from her lips; for they were as strange to him as
an Abyssinian dynasty. It was perfectly clear that he was not of her
world, and that his own was insignificant and undistinguished compared
with hers. His spirit was stayed somewhat by the knowledge that he, and
not the execrable Gillingwater, had been chosen as her coadjutor in
the present crisis. His very ignorance of the royal families of North
Carolina, which she recited so glibly, and the fact that he was unknown
at the capital, had won him official recognition, and it was for him
now to prove his worth. The political plot into which he had been most
willingly drawn pleased him greatly; it was superior to his fondest
dream of adventure, and now, moreover, he had what he never had before,
a definite purpose in life, which was to be equal to the task to which
this intrepid girl assigned him.
“Well, that’s done,” said Miss Jerry, when the letter, still damp
from the copy-press, had been carefully sealed and stamped. “Governor
Osborne will get it in the morning. I think maybe we’d better telegraph
him that it’s coming.”
“I don’t see much use in that, when he’ll get the letter first thing
to-morrow,” Ardmore suggested. “It costs money to telegraph, and you
must have an economical administration.”
“The good of it would be to keep him worried and make him very angry.
And if he told Barbara Osborne about it, it would make her angry, too,
and maybe she wouldn’t sleep any all night, the haughty thing! Hand me
one of those telegraph blanks.”
The message, slowly thumped out on the typewriter, and several times
altered and copied, finally read:
RALEIGH, N. C.
The Honourable Charles Osborne,
Governor of South Carolina,
Columbia, S. C.:
Have written by to-night’s mail in Appleweight matter. Your
vacillating course not understood.
WILLIAM DANGERFIELD,
Governor of North Carolina.
“I reckon that will make him take notice,” and Miss Jerry viewed her
work with approval. “And now, Mr. Ardmore, here’s a telegram from Mr.
Billings which I don’t understand. See if you know what it means.”
Ardmore chuckled delightedly as he read:
Cannot understand your outrageous conduct in bond matter. If payment
is not made June first your state’s credit is ruined. Where is
Foster? Answer to Atlanta.
GEORGE P. BILLINGS.
“I don’t see what’s so funny about that! Mr. Bassford was walking the
floor with that message when I came to the office. He said papa and
the state were both going to be ruined. There’s a quarter of a million
dollars to be paid on bonds that are coming due June first, and there
isn’t any money to pay them with. That’s what he said. And Mr. Foster
is the state treasurer, and he’s gone fishing.”
“Fishing?”
“He left word he had gone fishing. Mr. Foster and papa don’t get along
together, and Mr. Bassford says he’s run off just to let those bonds
default and bring disgrace on papa and the state.”
Ardmore’s grin broadened. The Appleweight case was insignificant
compared with this new business with which he was confronted. He was
vaguely conscious that bonds have a way of coming due, and that there
is such a thing as credit in the world, and that it is something that
must not be trifled with; but these considerations did not weigh
heavily with him. For the first time in his uneventful life vengeance
unsheathed her sword in his tranquil soul. Billings had always treated
him with contempt, as a negligible factor in the Ardmore millions, and
here at last was an opportunity to balance accounts.
“I will show you how to fix Billings. Just let me have one of those
blanks.”
And after much labour, and with occasional suggestions from Miss Jerry,
the following message was presently ready for the wires:
Your famous imputation upon my honour and that of the state shall
meet with the treatment it deserves. I defy you to do your worst.
If you come into North Carolina or bring legal proceedings for the
collection of your bonds I will fill you so full of buckshot that
forty men will not be strong enough to carry you to your grave.
“Isn’t that perfectly grand!” murmured Jerry admiringly. “But I thought
your family and the Bronx Loan and Trust Company were the same thing.
That’s what Rutherford Gillingwater told me once.”
“You are quite right. Billings works for us. Before I came of age he
used to make me ask his permission when I wanted to buy a new necktie,
and when I was in college he was always fussing over my bills, and
humiliating me when he could.”
“But you mustn’t make him so mad that he will cause papa trouble and
bring disgrace on our administration.”
“Don’t you worry about Billings. He is used to having people get down
on their knees to him, and the change will do him good. When he gets
over his first stroke of apoplexy he will lock himself in a dark room
and begin to think hard about what to do. He usually does all the
bluffing, and I don’t suppose anybody ever talked to him like this
telegram in all his life. Where is this man Foster?”
“Just fishing; that’s what Mr. Bassford said, but he didn’t know where.
Father was going to call a special session of the legislature to
investigate him, and he was so angry that he ran off so that papa would
have to look after those bonds himself. Then this Appleweight case came
up, and that worried papa a great deal. Here’s his call for the special
session. He told Mr. Bassford to hold that, too, until he came back
from New Orleans.”
Ardmore read Governor Dangerfield’s summons to the legislature with
profound interest. It was signed, but the space for the date on which
the law-makers were to assemble had been left blank.
“It looks to me as though you had the whole state in your hands, Miss
Dangerfield. But I don’t believe we ought to call the special session
just yet. It would be sure to injure the state’s credit, and it will be
a lot more fun to catch Foster. I wonder if he took all the state money
with him.”
“Mr. Bassford said he didn’t know and couldn’t find out, for the
clerks in the treasurer’s office wouldn’t tell him a single thing.”
“One should never deal with subordinates,” remarked Ardmore sagely.
“Deal with the principals--I heard a banker say that once, and he was a
man who knew everything. Besides, it will be more fun to attend to the
bonds ourselves.”
He seemed lost in reverie for several minutes, and she asked with some
impatience what he was studying about.
“I was trying to think of a word they use when the government has war
or any kind of trouble. It’s something about a corpse, but I can’t
remember it.”
“A corpse? How perfectly horrid! Can it be possible, Mr. Ardmore, that
you mean the writ of habeas corpus?” The twinkle in his eye left her
unable to determine whether his ignorance was real, or assumed for his
own amusement.
“That’s it,” beamed Ardmore. “We’ve got to suspend it if worst comes to
worst. Then you can put anybody you like into a dungeon, and nobody can
get him out--not for a million years.”
“I wonder where they keep it?” asked Jerry. “It must be here somewhere.
Perhaps it’s in the safe.”
“I don’t think it’s a thing, like a lemon, or a photograph, or a bottle
of ink; it’s a document, like a Thanksgiving proclamation, and you
order out the militia, and the soldiers have to leave their work and
assemble at their armouries, and it’s all very serious, and somebody is
likely to get shot.”
“I don’t think it would be nice to shoot people,” said Jerry. “That
would do the administration a terrible lot of harm.”
“Of course we won’t resort to extreme measures unless we are forced to
it. And then, after we have exhausted all the means at our command, we
can call on the president to send United States troops.”
He was proud of his knowledge, which had lingered in his
subconsciousness from a review of the military power of the states
which he had heard once from Griswold, who knew about such matters; but
he was brought to earth promptly enough.
“Mr. Ardmore, how dare you suggest that we call United States troops
into North Carolina! Don’t you know that would be an insult to every
loyal son of this state? I should have you know that the state of North
Carolina is big enough to take care of herself, and if any president
of the United States sends any troops down here while I’m running this
office, he’ll find that, while our people will gladly die, they never
surrender.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean anything like that by what I said,” pleaded Ardmore,
frightened almost to tears. “Of course, we’ve got our own troops,
and we’ll get through all our business without calling for help. I
shouldn’t any more call on the president than I’d call on the Czar of
Russia.”
She seemed satisfied with this disclaimer, and produced a diary in
which Governor Dangerfield had noted his appointments far into the
future.
“We’ll have to break a lot of engagements for papa. Here’s a speech he
promised to make at Wilmington at the laying of the corner-stone of the
new orphan asylum. That’s to-morrow, and papa can’t be there, so we’ll
send a telegram of congratulation to be read instead. Then he was to
preside at a convention of the Old Fiddlers’ Association at Goldsboro
the next day, and he can’t do that. I guess we’d better telegraph and
say how sorry he is to be delayed by important official business. And
here’s--why, I had forgotten about the National Guard encampment,
that’s beginning now.”
“Do you mean the state militia?” Ardmore inquired.
“Why, of course. They’re having their annual encampment over in
Azbell County at Camp Dangerfield--they always name the camp for the
governor--and father was to visit the camp next Saturday for his
annual inspection. That’s near your county, where your farm is; didn’t
you know that?”
Ardmore was humble, as he always was when his ignorance was exposed,
but his face brightened joyfully.
“You mustn’t break that engagement. Those troops ought to be inspected.
Inspecting his troops is one of the most important things a governor
has to do. It’s just like a king or an emperor. I’ve seen Emperor
William and King Humbert inspect their soldiers, and they go galloping
by like mad, with all the soldiers saluting, and it’s perfectly bully.
And then there have to be manœuvres, to see whether the troops know how
to fight or not, and forced marches and sham battles.”
“Papa always speaks to the men,” suggested Jerry, a little abashed by
the breadth and splendour of Ardmore’s knowledge. His comparison of the
North Carolina militia with the armies of Europe pleased her.
“I think the ladies of the royal family inspect the troops too,
sometimes,” he continued. “The queens are always honorary colonels of
regiments, and present them with flags, which is a graceful thing to
do.”
“Colonel Gillingwater never told me that, and he’s the adjutant-general
of the state and ought to know.”
“What’s he colonel of?” asked Ardmore gloomily.
“He was colonel in the Spanish war, or was going to be, but he got
typhoid fever, and so he couldn’t go to Cuba, and papa appointed him
adjutant-general as a reward for his services; but everybody calls him
Colonel just the same.”
“It looks like a pretty easy way of getting a title,” murmured Ardmore.
“I had typhoid fever once, and nearly died, and all my hair came out.”
“You oughtn’t to speak that way of my fiancé. It’s quite impertinent in
a mere private secretary to talk so.”
“I beg your pardon. I forgot that you were engaged. You’ll have to go
to Camp Dangerfield and inspect the troops yourself, and they would a
lot rather have you inspect them than have your father do it.”
“You mustn’t say things like that! I thought I told you your
appointment carried no social recognition. You mustn’t talk to me as
though I was a girl you really know----”
“But there’s no use of making-believe such things when I do know you!”
“Not the least little tiny bit, you don’t! Do you suppose, if you were
a gentleman I knew and had been introduced to, I would be talking to
you here in papa’s office?”
“But I pretend to be a gentleman; you certainly wouldn’t be talking to
me if you thought me anything else.”
“I can’t even discuss the matter, Mr. Ardmore. A gentleman wouldn’t lie
to a lady.”
“But if you know I’m a liar, why are you telling me these secrets and
asking me to help you play being governor?” and Ardmore, floundering
hopelessly, marvelled at her more and more.
“That’s exactly the reason--because you came poking up to my house and
told me that scandalous fib about meeting papa in New Orleans. Mr.
Bassford is a beautiful liar; that’s why he’s papa’s secretary; but you
are a much more imaginative sort of liar than Mr. Bassford. He can only
lie to callers about papa being engaged, or write encouraging letters
to people who want appointments which papa never expects to make; but
you lie because you can’t help it. Now, if you’re satisfied, you can
take those telegrams down to the telegraph office; and you’d better
mail that letter to Governor Osborne yourself, for fear the man who’s
running the lawn-mower will forget to come for it.”
The roll of drums and the cry of a bugle broke in upon the peace
of the late afternoon. Miss Jerry rose with an exclamation and ran
out into the broad portico of the state house. Several battalions
of a tide-water regiment, passing through town on their way to Camp
Dangerfield, had taken advantage of a wait in Raleigh to disembark
and show themselves at the capital. They were already halted and at
parade rest at the side of the street, and a mounted officer in khaki,
galloping madly into view, seemed to focus the eyes of the gathering
crowd. He was a gallant figure of a man; his mount was an animal that
realized Job’s ideal of a battle-horse; the soldiers presented arms as
the horseman rode the line. Miss Dangerfield waved her handkerchief,
standing eagerly on tiptoe to make her salutation carry as far as
possible.
“Who is that?” asked Ardmore, with sinking spirit.
“Why, Rutherford Gillingwater, of course.”
“Fours right!” rang the command a moment later, and the militiamen
tramped off to the station.
It was then that Ardmore, watching the crowd disperse at the edge of
the park, saw his caller of the morning striding rapidly across the
street. Ardmore started forward, then checked himself so suddenly that
Miss Jerry Dangerfield turned to him inquiringly.
“What’s the matter?” she demanded.
“Nothing. I have been robbed, as I hoped to be. Over there, on the
sidewalk, beyond the girl in the pink sunbonnet, goes my little brown
jug. That lank individual with the shabby hat has lifted it out of my
room at the hotel, just as I thought he would.”