"Weren't you going to the hotel?"
"I was thinking some of it. But the car--"
"Alphonse, get the rope. It will be a pleasure. We have always got to
lend assistance to a broken car. We may be in the same fix ourselves
some day."
Alphonse brought the rope and the Watermelon watched them adjust it.
When the last knot was tied to the old gentleman's liking, he turned to
the Watermelon and presented him with his card. The Watermelon took it
and read the name, "Brig.-General Charles Montrose Grossman, U.S.A.,
Retired." Then, not to be outdone, he reached in the still unexplored
pockets of his new clothes with confident ease, and finding a
pocket-book drew it forth, opened it on the mere chance that there would
be a card within, found one and presented it to the general with lofty
unconcern, trusting that the general and the owner of the clothes were
not acquainted.
"William Hargrave Batchelor," read the general aloud, while his round
fat face beamed with pleasure. "I have heard about you, sir, and am
glad to make your acquaintance."
The Watermelon grasped the extended hand and wrung it with fervor. "The
pleasure is all mine," said he with airy grace and sublime
self-assurance.
"Let me present you to my daughter. Henrietta, this is young Mr.
Batchelor of New York. You have read about him, my dear, in the papers.
He broke the cotton ring on Wall Street last week. You may remember.
Miss Grossman, Mr. Batchelor."
The girl put out her hand and the Watermelon shook it. Her hand was
slender and white, soft as velvet and well cared for. The Watermelon's
was big and brown and coarse, and entirely neglected as to the nails.
Henrietta noticed it with fastidious amusement. William Hargrave
Batchelor was not in her estimation, formed from the little she had read
about him in the papers, a gentleman. He had started life as a newsboy
on the streets of New York, and doubtless had not had his suddenly
acquired wealth long enough to be familiar with the small niceties of
life. Besides, he was so young and so good-looking, one could forgive
him a great deal more than dirty nails.
"You hardly look as old as I imagined you to be from the papers,"
declared the general, regarding a bit enviously the youth who had made
millions in a few short weeks by a sensational stroke of financial
genius.
"I have a young mug," explained the Watermelon modestly.
The general looked a bit startled. Henrietta laughed. She had always
wanted to meet a man in the making.
"I hope that if you have no other engagement, you will dine with us,"
said she.
"Certainly," cried the general. "Have you a previous appointment?"
"With myself," said the Watermelon. "To dine."
"You will dine with us," declared the general, and that settled it.
"Get into my car. Alphonse will steer yours."
The Watermelon made one last protest against highway robbery in broad
daylight, but the general waved him to silence and the Watermelon
decided that if they wished to make off with the stranger's car it was
no fault of his. He had done his best to stop it. He climbed into the
general's car, the general cranked up and they were off, Alphonse and
the Thomas car trailing along behind.
*CHAPTER IV*
*AND WHEN I DINE*
Henrietta turned sidewise that she might the better converse with her
guest.
"I noticed by the papers that you always make it a point to spend
Sundays in the country somewhere near New York, so that you can return
quickly in your car. I suppose that you really need the rest and quiet
for your week's work."
"I never work when I can rest," said the Watermelon truthfully.
"That's right, that's right," agreed the general, torn between a desire
to talk to the phenomenal young financier, who in one night had set New
York all agog, and to avoid a smash-up with the stone walls on either
side of the road. "Men are altogether too eager to make money."
"Yes," said Henrietta. "Everything nowadays is money, money, money."
Then remembering who her guest was, she added quickly, "I think it is
splendid in your getting away from it all and spending one day a week in
the country, close to nature. They say that stock-brokers are never
happy away from the Street."
"But I am not a stock-broker," explained the Watermelon, with his
candid, boyish smile. "I'm a lamb."
Henrietta laughed. "But not fleeced," said she gaily.
"Not yet," admitted the Watermelon, wondering if William Hargrave
Batchelor was still enjoying his swim.
"What you want to do, now that you have made your 'pile,'" advised the
general, as the machine swerved dangerously near a tree, "is to leave
the Street at once. Invest your money in U.S. government bonds and buy
a place in the country."
"You don't like the country yourself, father, except in the summer,"
objected Henrietta.
"That's all right, my dear, but when a man has three millions invested
in government bonds, he does not have to spend all of his life in the
country. Your last deal brought you three millions, I believe the
papers said?" Never before had the general discussed a friend's private
affairs with such sylvan frankness and interest, with such complete
unconsciousness of his own rudeness, but the youth who had risen one
night from the obscurity of New York's multitude to a position of
importance in the greatest money market in the world appeared to the
general in the light of a public character, and as he would have
discussed aviation with the Wright brothers, the North Pole with Peary,
so now he discussed money with the Watermelon.
"Three, ten," chuckled the Watermelon.
"Ah, yes," sighed the general. Money is power and every man wants
power. The general was old, without the time, training or opportunity
to make money, while this long-legged youth with the ridiculous woman's
eyes, sat on the back seat and babbled lightly of millions as the
general could hardly do of thousands.
"Ah, yes, three millions. Have you ever lived in the country?"
"Oh, off and on," said the Watermelon.
"I suppose you are fond of it or you wouldn't come up here every
Sunday," went on the general, missing the wall on the right by a
fraction of an inch. "Do you care for fishing?"
"If the bites ain't too plentiful."
Henrietta laughed. "You can't do it, Mr. Batchelor," said she.
"Do what?" asked the Watermelon, leaning forward. The Watermelon never
lacked self-assurance under any circumstances, and before a pretty girl
it merely grew in adverse ratio to the girl's years and in direct ratio
to her good looks. Henrietta was not pretty, but she had charm and
grace and good breeding, and a combination of the three sometimes equals
prettiness.
"Make us believe that you are as lazy as you are trying to."
"If I can't do it, I won't try," laughed the Watermelon. "But you can't
do it, either."
"Do what?"
"Make me believe that you are the general's daughter," returned the
Watermelon, letting his voice fall, gently and softly. The general was
busy at that moment preventing the car from climbing a tree and trying
to decide between Maine and Virginia as the best place for the
Watermelon to invest in his country estate. Personally, he preferred
Maine in summer and Virginia in winter. Was it therefore preferable to
roast in summer and be comfortable in winter, or to freeze in winter and
enjoy yourself in summer?
"Don't I look like him?" asked Henrietta, wishing that she had not made
the conversation quite so personal thus early in their acquaintance.
"You look like him," admitted the Watermelon, "but--"
Henrietta laughed faintly. "You wouldn't take me for his sister, would
you?" she questioned, fearing he would say yes. William Hargrave
Batchelor had spent his youth peddling papers and blacking boots. A
frank disregard for all social graces and hypocrisies was doubtless one
of his most pronounced characteristics. The little social amenities
would hardly be required in the strenuous existence of newsboy and
boot-black.
"For his granddaughter," said the Watermelon.
"Of course," said the general, aloud, "Maine has fine shooting in
winter."
"None of Maine for mine," declared the Watermelon conclusively. "Maine
is a prohibition state."