Mr. Gilfeather's saloon was not on Avenue C, in spite of the fact that
the Licensing Board tried to confine all institutions of the kind to
that historic boulevard. Mr. Gilfeather's saloon, to use his own
words, was a "high-toned and classy place." In consequence of that
fact and perhaps on the condition implied in the term, Mr. Gilfeather
was permitted to conduct his high-toned and classy place on a street
where he would have no competition. It was a little side street,
hardly more than a court, and there was no church within several
hundred feet and no school within several thousand. The little street
was called Gilfeather's Court, and not by its own name, which I have
forgotten; the narrow sidewalk from Main Street to Mr. Gilfeather's
door was well trodden; and that door was marked by day by a pair of
scraggy and ill-conditioned bay trees and by night by a modest light,
in addition.
Mr. Gilfeather may have been grieved by the condition of the bay
trees, which were real trees, if trees which have their roots in
shallow tubs can be called real. At all events, he had resolved to add
to the classy appearance of his place, and to that end he had
concluded arrangements with the Everlasting Decorating Company for
certain palms and ferns, duly set in tubs of earth,--the earth was not
important except as it helped in the illusion,--which ferns and palms
were warranted not to be affected by heat, dryness, or the fumes of
alcohol, and to require no care except an occasional dusting. The men
of the Everlasting Decorating Company had just finished the artistic
disposal of these palms and ferns--as ordered--about the little
mahogany tables, giving to each table a spurious air of seclusion, and
had gone away, smiling and happy, having been treated by Mr.
Gilfeather, very properly, to whatever they liked. Mr. Gilfeather
wandered now among his new possessions, changing this palm by a few
inches and that fern by the least fraction of an inch and, altogether,
lost in admiring contemplation.
What if the glossy green leaves were nothing but varnished green
paper? What if the stems were nothing but fibre with a covering of the
varnished paper here and there? What else were the real stems made of
anyway? And the light in the interior of Mr. Gilfeather's was rather
dim, having to filter in through his small front windows after passing
the tall blank wall of the building opposite, and--well--his
admiration was not undeserved, on the whole. He came back and leaned
against the bar. The bar was by no means the feature of the room. It
was small and modest, but of solid San Domingo mahogany. Mr.
Gilfeather did not want his customers to drink at the bar. He
preferred that they should sit at the tables.
"How is it, Joe?" he asked, turning to the white-coated barkeeper.
"Pretty good, eh?"
The silent barkeeper nodded.
"Switch on the lights over in that corner," Mr. Gilfeather ordered,
"and let's see how she looks." Joe stopped wiping his glasses long
enough to turn to a row of buttons. "That's good. Put 'em all on." Joe
put 'em all on. "That's better. Now," turning to wave his hand upward
over the bar, "light her up."
At his command there appeared on the wall over the bar, a large
painting of a lady clad chiefly in a leopard skin and luxuriant golden
hair and a charming smile. The lady was made visible by electric
lights, screened and carefully disposed, and seemed to diffuse her
presence impartially over the room. Unfortunately, there was nobody to
admire but Mr. Gilfeather and Joe, the barkeeper, and there is some
doubt about Joe's admiration; but she did not seem to mind and she
continued to smile. As they looked, the outer door opened silently and
closed again. Mr. Gilfeather and Joe, warned by the sudden draught,
turned.
"Hello, Ev," said Mr. Gilfeather. "What do you think of it?" He waved
his hand inclusively. "Just got 'em."
Everett inspected the palms and ferns solemnly. "Very pretty. Very
good. It seems to be good, strong paper and well varnished. I don't
see any imitation rubber plants. Where are your rubber plants?"
"Eh?" asked Mr. Gilfeather, puzzled. "Don't you like it? They could
have furnished rubber plants, I s'pose. Think I ought to have 'em?"
"Nothing of the kind is complete without rubber plants," Everett
replied seriously.
Mr. Gilfeather looked at him doubtfully. "Don't you like 'em, Ev?" he
asked. It was almost a challenge. Mr. Gilfeather was nettled and
inclined to be hostile. If Everett was making fun of him--well, he had
better look out.
"It's hardly up to your standard, Tom," he answered. He indicated the
lady in the leopard skin--and in her own--who still smiled sweetly
down at them. "After I have gone to the trouble of selecting paintings
for you, it--er--would be natural to expect that you would consult me
before adding a lot of cheap paper flowers to your decorations. I
should have been happy to advise you."
"Nothing cheap about 'em," growled Mr. Gilfeather. "Had to have
something in here."
"What's the matter with real palms and ferns?"
"What would they cost, I should like to know? And how would I keep 'em
looking decent? Look at them bay trees out there."
"Those bay trees do look a little dejected," Everett agreed, smiling.
"I should employ a good gardener to care for them and for your real
palms and ferns. Our gardener, I am sure, could--"
"I don't s'pose your gardener'd do it for me now, would he?"
Everett smiled again. "Hardly. But he's not the only one in town. It
might cost more, Tom, but it would pay, believe me. Your bar, now, is
the real thing and in good taste. You ought to have things in
keeping."
Mr. Gilfeather emitted a growl and looked almost as dejected as his
bay trees. Everett laughed and moved toward a door beside the bar.
"Anybody up there yet, Tom?" he asked.
Mr. Gilfeather shook his head. "I'll send 'em up." Everett opened the
door and they heard his steps going up the stairs. "Hell!" said Mr.
Gilfeather.
Joe smiled sympathetically, but said nothing.
It was getting towards noon and customers began to straggle in singly
or by twos and threes. Certain of these customers were warned by Mr.
Gilfeather's thumb, pointing directly upward, and vanished. The others
had chosen their favorite tables and had been waited upon by two
white-aproned and silent youths, who had appeared mysteriously from
nowhere. The room gradually filled and gradually emptied again, but
there was no sign of Everett and his friends. Mr. Gilfeather went to
his dinner and came back a little after two o'clock. The high-toned
and classy place showed few customers present. It was a slack time.
Two men, at a table behind a mammoth paper fern, were drinking whiskey
and water and talking earnestly; another, hidden by a friendly palm,
was consuming, in a leisurely manner, a hot Tom and Jerry; another,
tilting his chair back in the far corner, read the early afternoon
paper and sipped his ale; and one of our white-aproned friends
vanished through the door beside the bar with a tray containing five
different mixtures of the most modern varieties, of which I do not
know the names. Mr. Gilfeather looked about on his despised
decorations and sighed; and the outer door opened again and admitted
Miss Sally Ladue.
Mr. Gilfeather half turned, in response to a smothered exclamation
from Joe, turned again, and cast a startled glance up at the smiling
lady over the bar.
"Switch 'em off, Joe, quick!" and Joe switched 'em off, leaving the
lady with her leopard skin in murky darkness, which, under the
circumstances, was the best place for her. But he had not been quick
enough.
Sally's color was rather high as she stood just inside the door.
Nothing but palms and ferns--very lifelike--met her eyes; nothing,
that is, except a very chaste bar of San Domingo mahogany and the
persons of Joe and Mr. Gilfeather. The lady in the leopard skin no
longer met her eyes, for that lady had been plunged in gloom, as we
are aware. Sally, too, was aware of it. Mr. Gilfeather had a guilty
consciousness of it as he advanced.
"Good afternoon, Miss Ladue," he said, somewhat apprehensively. "I
hope nothing is going wrong with my daughter?"
"No, Mr. Gilfeather," replied Sally, hastening to reassure him. "She
is doing very well, and I expect that she will graduate well up in her
class."
Mr. Gilfeather was evidently relieved to hear it.
"I came to consult you," continued Sally; "to ask your advice." She
looked about her. The room was very quiet, much quieter than her own
room at school, for the two men drinking whiskey and water had stopped
their talking, upon Sally's entrance. It had been no more than a low
hum of voices, at most, and the man with his Tom and Jerry made no
more noise than did the man sipping his ale and reading his paper.
Sally thought that she would like to have Patty glance in there for a
minute.
"Well," said Mr. Gilfeather slowly, "perhaps I can find a place where
we can talk without interruption. Will you--"
"Why can't we sit down behind some of these lovely palms?" asked Sally
hastily.
Mr. Gilfeather looked at her quickly. He was sensitive on the subject
of palms and ferns--everlasting ones, furnished by the Everlasting
Decorating Company. But Sally seemed unconscious. His suspicions were
unfounded. He nodded and led the way, and Sally followed, penetrating
the seclusion of three of the customers, to a table in another corner.
Sally sat down and Mr. Gilfeather sat opposite.
He hesitated. "I suppose you wouldn't do me the honor to take
something with me, now?" he asked. Sally smiled and shook her head. "A
glass of lemonade or a cup of tea? I can have tea in a minute--good
tea, too, Miss Ladue."
"Why, thank you, Mr. Gilfeather. I can't see any reason why I
shouldn't take a cup of tea with you. I should like it very much."
He leaned back, crooked his finger at a white-aproned youth, and gave
his order. One would not imagine, from any sign that the youth gave,
that it was not quite the usual order. As Mr. Gilfeather had promised,
in less than a minute it was on the table: tea and sugar and sliced
lemon and cream.
"We have a good many orders for tea," remarked Mr. Gilfeather, in
answer to Sally's look of surprise. "I try to have the best of every
kind."
Sally helped herself to a lump of sugar and a slice of lemon. "I must
confess that I didn't suppose you ever had an order for tea."
"Yes," he replied thoughtfully. "But we don't often have customers
like you, Miss Ladue. It is an honor which I appreciate."
"But," Sally interposed, "you don't know, yet, what my errand is."
"It don't make no difference what your errand is," said Mr.
Gilfeather; "your visit honors me. Whatever you ask my advice about,
I'll give you my best and thank you for coming to me."
Sally looked at him with a smile in her eyes. "What I wanted to see
you about, Mr. Gilfeather, was gambling. Do--"
"What?" asked the astonished Mr. Gilfeather, with a penetrating look
at Sally. "You ain't going to--"
Sally laughed outright, attracting to herself the attention of the two
whiskey-and-waters. Tom and Jerry was consumed and had just gone out.
"No," she said merrily, "I'm not going to. I only meant that I wanted
to see--to know whether you knew about it."
"Whether I knew about it!" exclaimed Mr. Gilfeather, more puzzled than
ever. He glanced up fearfully as a slight noise came down to them from
above. "I never play, if you mean that. Of course, I know something
about it. Any man in my business can't help knowing something about
it."
"Well," Sally resumed, "I wonder whether it would be possible for--for
me, for instance, to get in; to see the inside of a place where it is
going on. I don't know anything about it and I didn't know anybody to
ask but you."
Mr. Gilfeather cast another apprehensive glance at the ceiling. Then
he looked down again and gazed thoughtfully at Sally out of half-shut
eyes.
"I should think," he observed slowly, "that it would be difficult;
very difficult, indeed. I should say that it might be impossible. What
particular place did you have in mind? That is, if it's a proper
question."
"That's just the trouble," Sally replied, frowning. "I don't know,
although I can find out. I didn't think of that. It's a place where
college boys go, sometimes," she added, flushing slowly.
"In Boston, eh?" Mr. Gilfeather's brow cleared and his eyes opened
again. The color in Sally's face had not escaped him. "It's my advice,
Miss Ladue, that you give it up. I don't know anything about them
Boston places--I would say those places--or I'd offer to go for you.
Perhaps I can guess--"
"It's my brother," said Sally simply.
Mr. Gilfeather nodded. "I'd heard it or I shouldn't have spoken of
it," he said gently. "I'm very sorry, Miss Ladue. Nobody else shall
hear of it from me."
"I'm afraid that will make very little difference," she remarked, "but
I thank you."
Mr. Gilfeather was silent for some moments while Sally sipped her
tea.
"Haven't you got any gentleman friend," he asked at last, "who would
do your errand for you?"
"I don't know who would be the most likely to--to know the way about,"
she returned. "I can't very well ask for bids." She smiled quickly.
"If I knew the best person to ask I would ask him."
"That you would," Mr. Gilfeather murmured admiringly. "You ain't
afraid. Do you want me to suggest?" he asked.
"I hoped you would be willing to."
"Well, how would Everett Morton do? I guess he knows his way about. I
always understood that he did." Mr. Gilfeather smiled furtively. The
matter of the palms rankled.
Sally looked reflective. "If he is the best man to do it I'll ask
him." She sighed. She felt a strange repugnance to asking him--for
that service. She had finished her tea and Mr. Gilfeather had finished
his. "Well," she said, rising slowly, "I thank you for your advice,
Mr. Gilfeather,--and for your tea," she added, "which I have enjoyed."
"The honor is mine," returned Mr. Gilfeather gallantly.
Sally smiled and bowed and was on her way to the door. "Miss Ladue,"
called Mr. Gilfeather. She stopped and turned. "I wish you would be
kind enough to favor me with a bit of advice, too."
"Gladly," said Sally. "What about?"
Mr. Gilfeather came close and spoke low. "It's these palms and ferns.
I got 'em this morning. Might I ask your opinion of 'em?"
"Surely, they're very nice and attractive," said Sally doubtfully.
He remarked the doubt. "You don't really think that. Now, do you?
Wouldn't real ones be more--more high-toned, as you might say? I was
advised that--paper flowers, he called 'em--weren't in keeping. Would
you advise me to take 'em out and put in real ones?"
"Oh," Sally answered quickly, "I can't advise you about that. Real
ones would be more expensive to keep in order, but they would be
better. Don't you think so yourself?"
Mr. Gilfeather sighed. "These'll have to come out," he said sadly.
"They'll have to come out, I guess. It's hard luck that I didn't think
of asking before I got 'em. But I'm much obliged to you, Miss Ladue."
Sally nodded again and went out. The door had hardly shut behind her
when the man who had been sipping his ale and reading his paper
emerged from his corner hastily and put out after her. It was Eugene
Spencer.