“And Mr. Davidson?”
“Davidson? Merely a snob—only that and nothing more.”
“Mr. MacKenzie?”
“A monstrosity,” spoke up Mr. Bang, “yet he taught me a good lesson.”
“How could Mr. MacKenzie teach you a lesson?” I exclaimed laughingly,
although I couldn’t help emphasizing the “you.” The emphasis was,
however, apparently quite lost on Mr. Bang. His composure and gravity
were serene, as he replied:
“Once in early youth I came to this city and hoped to become a member of
a tennis club to which MacKenzie belonged. I knew Mac and schemed to
improve our acquaintance in order to help me in. I invited him to lunch,
filled him with wine, attempted to talk on literature, and finally told
him I was a tennis enthusiast.”
Mr. Bang paused, and Uncle asked mischievously:
“Did he respond?”
“He responded by asking if he might insure my life.”
We roared, that is, save Mr. Bang.
“That was a cold douche which drowned my social ambitions. I reasoned
that society that would tolerate such a Yahoo as he had nothing to offer
worth having.”
“The girls laugh at him,” said Mumsie.
“Possibly,” replied Mr. Bang, who began to unburden himself further.
“The trouble with most of our sports is that they are, as Uncle says,
communal and in the hands of devotees who build them up. Cliques are
formed which such people as Townsend and MacKenzie run. Golf is somewhat
the exception to this general rule, which possibly accounts for the ever
increasing popularity of the game. Golf clubs, generally, make
provisions for the admittance of strangers, and, for some reason or
other, good-fellowship is more common in golf clubs than in other
associations.”
“That’s true,” commented Uncle.
“I generally tell people whom I meet casually,” continued Mr. Bang,
“that I have navvied and mined throughout the West, especially if they
suggest themselves to me as being a bit snobbish, and I often find
myself treated as a tough character. I do this merely to be honest. I
daresay this is a mistake, for people ascribe my candour to simplicity.”
“What do you do with the tenderfoot when he arrives in the West?” I
asked Mr. Bang.
“We treat him well and give him a show. If he is loaded with nonsense we
kindly knock it out of him.”
Was there ever a stranger character than this Mr. Bang? In spite of my
dislike for him, I am becoming interested.
“The westerner’s quarrel with the easterner is not unique,” put in Uncle
as his nephew ceased speaking. “It is the same with the Englishman who
returns home from Australia or Rhodesia. Frontier communities are made
up of wanderers; and its social life frames itself to suit the
scallywag. Settled communities have no experience in such wanderers, and
their prejudices are strong.”
Uncle made this explanation dispassionately, as if he simply wished to
further my understanding. I suppose I am still a child in my knowledge
of the world. But I’m cleverer than they seem to think. Men are
self-satisfied creatures, sometimes.
After dinner we went into the city, walked into the crowded streets.
Sleighbells were ringing, here, there, and everywhere. Sleighbells are
almost the jolliest thing about Christmas; the automobile horns sounded
out of place. There was a great deal of laughing and of merry greetings
to be heard.
Mr. Bang is certainly prodigal with his money. He gave a poor boy a
dollar and told him to buy a new shirt; and he gave a poor, old woman
two dollars. He did not do it secretly, nor ostentatiously, but in an
open-hearted, matter-of-course sort of way. I suppose it is the result
of his western training.
But if Mr. Bang hates eastern society, I confess the more I see of its
movement and brightness, the more I intend to get on. The way will
open—I know that—and I am quite rid of the queer ideas that filled my
mind last night. I can make use of Mr. Bang and Ethel Bassett, and
possibly—Mrs. Mount, “that old battle-axe,” who is more like, shall I
say, a Fairy Godmother. Possibly, we’ll see.