"Drink," said the Watermelon, making Henrietta think unreasonably of a
minister, "Drink causes a psychological condition which each man should
experience to obtain a clear insight into the normal condition of the
mind." He paused impressively and Henrietta felt almost compelled to
say "Amen," for what reason she did not know. "But," added the youth in
the solemn tones of the benediction, "when I get--lit, I like to do it
on whisky and not poison."
The general who had intended a scathing reply, and firm but gentle
counsel to lead back to the narrow path this promising young man
hovering on the brink of ruin, with all his glorious possibilities,
found himself agreeing.
The car had reached the top of the steep hill, and suddenly left the
trees, the narrow, woodland road, with the columbine and wild roses
nodding at them from the underbrush, and swept out on to a wide,
well-kept driveway, with smooth rolling lawns on each side and a
majestic white building as a crowning glory on the top of the hill.
Grandview did not belie its name. High on the topmost ridge, it looked
over valley and woods and streams, beyond to farther hills, peak after
peak, range after range, fading into a blue shadow against the sky. It
was a big, square, garish building, gaunt and unlovely among its lovely
surroundings. There were two porches, one up-stairs and one below. They
were filled with chairs and gay, brightly fringed hammocks. Behind the
hotel was a stable and garage, white and gaunt and square like the main
building.
It was the dinner hour and in the country there is never any need to
urge one to the table. So, save for a man and a girl, waiting on the
steps, there was no one in sight.
"There are the Bartletts now," cried Henrietta, as the train of cars
approached the porch. "Poor dears, we have kept them waiting."
"I wonder," said the Watermelon, "why a guy always gets so hungry on
Sunday."
"Nothing else to do," suggested Henrietta, "but eat."
The car stopped and she started to alight but the Watermelon was before,
offering his hand with a grace bred of absolute unconsciousness of self.
"Alphonse can take your car to the garage and fill it with gasolene,"
said the general. He always felt that after he had done his best to put
a car out of order for good, he practically owned the car and its owner.
"Aw, don't bother," protested the Watermelon.
"Tush, tush, man, it is no bother," and the general turned to the coldly
respectful Alphonse.
Henrietta had started toward the steps and the Watermelon turned to
follow her, when he saw _her_ standing on the top step, looking straight
at him across Henrietta's shoulder. His first impulse was to stand and
stare, his second, to turn and run back to Mike and James and his old
clothes, his third, which he followed blindly, was to stumble forward,
hat in hand, not from any respect for woman in the abstract, but just
for her, her tiny feet, her small white teeth, her dimple. She would
not come up to his shoulder by at least six inches, she was very
slender, and in her high-waisted, yellow frock, she seemed a mere wisp
of a girl. Her hair and eyes were brown, her cheeks flushed like the
petals of an apple blossom. She had a crooked little smile that brought
a single dimple in one soft cheek. Her hat was a big, flapping affair,
covered with buttercups and daisies.
The Watermelon, gazing at her, forgot everything, Henrietta, dinner, the
general. He stared and she stared back. The brown suit with the pale
green stripe and the faint suggestion of red, lent an undeniable
improvement to the broad shoulders and long limbs of the graceful
Watermelon. The admirable shave and hair-cut the village barber had
given him in exchange for his own quarter, revealed the square-cut chin
and the good-natured, careless mouth of the born ne'er-do-well. Under
the brim of the soft expensive panama, were his woman's eyes, now tragic
and unhappy, for who was he but a tramp, a frequenter of the highways
and back streets, an associate of James and Mike?
"Billy," said Henrietta, "we have had an adventure and picked up another
guest. Miss Bartlett, Mr. Batchelor."
"Were you part of the adventure?" asked Billy, holding out her hand.
"Yes," said the Watermelon, incapable of further speech.
Henrietta presented him to Mr. Bartlett, a stout, red-faced gentleman of
middle age. Wealth, success, self-complacency radiated from him like the
rays of the sun. He grasped the hard brown hand of the Watermelon and
looked the young man up and down, noticing the pin in his tie, the
panama and the silk socks without seeming fairly to notice the man.
"William Hargrave Batchelor?" he murmured questioningly.
"The same," answered the general heartily, feeling that he had done
something praiseworthy in capturing the young man. He drew off his
gloves and beamed at the Watermelon.
"He is a young one to beat us, Bartlett. We ought to be Oslerized."
Bartlett's eyes gleamed and he shook the Watermelon's hand with renewed
pleasure. "Youth," said he oratorically, "is hard to beat, General, but
we aren't deaduns yet. I have had an occasional try at the Street,
myself, Mr. Batchelor. You may have heard of me."
"Oh, yes," said the Watermelon absent-mindedly, thinking of the girl
with the single dimple and the turned-up nose.
"Father took me, once," said Billy. "It was terrible. Are you a
broker, Mr. Batchelor?"
"Haven't you read yesterday's papers, Billy?" exclaimed Henrietta.
"I never read the papers," admitted Billy, with a charming smile. "Just
the front page head-lines, sometimes."
"He was there," laughed the general. "In inch-high print. He broke the
cotton ring, my dear." The general's tone was full of reflected glory
as the host of the great man.
"Oh," cried Billy, "that's where father lost so much. He told me this
morning, just as we left the house--"
Bartlett glanced sharply at the Watermelon and interrupted Billy with a
laugh. "You get everything wrong, my dear," said he, tweaking her ear.
"I said a good deal of money had been lost--"
"But, papa," protested Billy, "you said--"
"Come to dinner, everybody, please," interrupted Henrietta, in response
to an appealing glance from Bartlett. "I am starving whether you others
are or not."
"We had better," cried the general jocularly, "or this young man will
become a bear instead of a bull." He laid his hand affectionately on
the Watermelon's shoulder and walked down the hall with it resting
there.
*CHAPTER V*
*A PLAN AND A TELEGRAM*
The big, cool dining-room, with tall palms and plants, snowy tables and
gleaming silver, the crowd of well-dressed people, the talk and
laughter, and the obsequious, hurrying waiters, was not a new experience
to the Watermelon. For one short, painful week, he had essayed to be a
waiter and had finally seen the folly of his ways and given it up after
he had broken more china than his wages, which were withheld, could
cover. His complete indifference as to what people thought of him made
him entirely at his ease, while his scattered wits were coming back with
a rush and his colossal self-assurance was growing every moment he was
in the society of the charming Billy.
"I was a hash-slinger once," said he, gazing at her across the table.
Her small nose wrinkled with pleasure and the single dimple flashed
forth and was gone.
"That's right," said the general, who grew more fond of his guest with
every passing remark. "Don't be ashamed of the past just because you
have money now."
"You blacked boots, too, I believe?" questioned Bartlett, the results of
that unfortunate cotton deal he had participated in still rankling.
"Quite interesting."
The Watermelon had ears only for Billy. She spoke and it was as if the
others had been silent.
"Was it fun?" she asked.
"Oh, yes," drawled the Watermelon sarcastically. "It was fun all right.
Everybody wanted to be waited on first and everybody wanted the white
meat."
"What did they do when they didn't get waited on?" asked Billy.
"Yelled at me," said the Watermelon, "as if I was their servant. This
is a free country and we are all equal. I said that to one old gent
once and it raised Cain."
"What'd he say?"
"He said that might be, but we didn't remain equal."
"What did you say?"
"I said, 'I know it and I am sorry for you, sir. Don't blame yourself
too much,' I said. 'Was it drink that did it?' When I left they didn't
give me any pay."
"Why not?" asked Billy, eagerly amused.
"They said I had broken too many dishes. I said if I had known they were
going to keep my pay, I would have broken twice as many."
"Why didn't you do it, then?" asked Billy, whose ideas of vengeance were
young and drastic.
"Too much work," explained the Watermelon. "If I wasn't extra strong, I
wouldn't have been able to break what I did."
"I presume you return to the city to-night?" questioned Bartlett.
The Watermelon thought of the shivering wretch who was trying to hide
his nakedness in the forest depths and shook his head. "I'm leaving
about three," said he, putting the parting off as long as possible
because of Billy. It hurt him to think of leaving her, even then,
charming, dainty Billy.
"Tell me some other things you have done," teased Billy.
"If I sat over that side," said the Watermelon with the boldness of
desperation. In two short hours they would part for good, so why not
make the most of the short time allowed? "If I sat over that side, I
could tell you so much better the sad, sweet story of my life."
"Come on," laughed Billy. And the Watermelon rose, to the amusement of
those nearest, went around the table and drew up a chair beside Billy,
with the general on the other side of him.
Henrietta made vain attempts to take a hostess' part in the
conversation, and both Billy and the Watermelon made equally polite and
good-natured endeavors to include her, but when two are young, and one
is pretty and the other handsome, a third person assumes the proportions
of not a crowd so much as a mob. The general was enjoying himself
sufficiently with his dinner. He and Bartlett had gone to the same
school and he felt as much right to neglect Bartlett as though he had
been a brother. Henrietta turned to Bartlett and they chatted on the
trivial affairs of the day, while Henrietta wondered if she did seem so
very old to the Watermelon and Bartlett matured a plan that had come to
him like an inspiration as he watched the Watermelon's frank admiration
for Billy.
In the crash on the Street which had broken the cotton ring and had
brought a comparatively young and hitherto unknown man into prominence,
Bartlett had lost more than he cared to think about. Though his name
had not appeared, he had been heavily involved. The ring had needed but
a week, a day, more to bring it to perfection, then in a night, from
whence hardly a soul knew, having worked quietly, steadily,
persistently, this unforeseen factor had arisen and defeat stared the
ring in the face. Another week would bring complete collapse unless
this William Hargrave Batchelor could be suppressed. They had tried to
see him, but he would not be seen. Clearly he had no price, preferring
to fight to a finish, which was an admirable quality in one so young,
but hardly to be desired in an opponent who unfortunately had every
chance to win. Voluntarily, he would not leave the fight, but if he
could be suppressed? The following Saturday was the crucial time. If
he did not return until the day after?
Bartlett had left the city late the previous afternoon to spend Sunday
with Billy, away from the heat and worry of the scene of battle, and
here was William Hargrave Batchelor, apparently doing the same thing.
Clearly it was a dispensation of Providence. There was Billy, and after
all William Hargrave Batchelor was young and human. He had probably
never known girls like Billy before, or dined with them as equals. He
certainly had made no attempt to hide his admiration for this particular
one. Bartlett chatted gaily with Henrietta and watched the two
opposite, trying to decide if it would be possible to kidnap the young
man for a week, take him farther into the country, get him away from
Wall Street at any cost. Were Billy's charms equal to the attempt?
William Hargrave Batchelor was said to be a cold, hard-headed youth, who
had risen by sheer grit and determination to the place he now held,
riding rough-shod over his own and every one else's desires and
pleasures. A calm, imperturbable young man, with cruel keen eyes, the
papers described him. Watching him across the table, Bartlett decided
that his square jaw and thin mouth fitted the description fairly well,
but that the eyes were a complete contradiction. They were neither keen
nor cruel, but soft and mild and sleepy. The whole face was careless,
indifferent, and if it were not for the jaw, Bartlett would have hardly
believed it possible that Batchelor was sitting opposite him. His own
jaw snapped and he swore to himself that he would keep him for a week,
either through Billy or otherwise. So strong is the power of suggestion,
it did not enter his head to question the youth's identity.
They were rising from the table now. The general, having dined to his
satisfaction, was beaming with good humor and stories. Excusing himself
a moment, Bartlett hurried to the telegraph station in the office. He
hunted for his code, but could not find it and had to write the telegram
in English. It would be safe enough. The operator was a raw country
youth who wouldn't be able to understand it anyway, and it would go
direct to his broker, who would be spending the day at his country place
on Long Island.
"Have W.H.B.," wrote Bartlett. "Will take him for a week's tour in the
country, with Billy's help. Eat them up."
"Rush it," he ordered sternly, "and bring me the answer. I will wait
for it on the porch."
The news soon spread that the stranger dining with the general and his
daughter was none other than the suddenly famous young stock broker,
whose grim defiance of the Street was told in head-lines in the daily
papers, and whose life from the cradle up was thrillingly recounted in
the Sunday supplement. When he had changed his seat at the table, there
had been a suppressed titter of amusement for the eccentricities of a
great man, and those who made a study of human nature saw plainly an
indication of that character which knew what it wanted and would get it
and keep it, overriding all obstacles. A man like that, nothing could
down.
As they stood on the porch after dinner, waiting for Bartlett to rejoin
them, the four were soon surrounded by an ever-growing circle of friends
and near friends, and to his pained surprise, the Watermelon was the
admired center of the group. All looked on him much as the general did,
not so much as a man but as a character out of the Sunday supplement.
Bored to exhaustion, he shook hands limply with a score or more whom he
did not know and did not want to know.
It was getting late and he would have to return the clothes and become
once more merely the Watermelon. He had forgotten the beauty show and
had no heart for it now. When he left Billy nothing more counted,
nothing mattered. Old clothes or good, hobo or millionaire, without
Billy, one was as desirable as the other. He would return the clothes
and beat it up the line that evening. James and Mike could go to grass.
Meanwhile, instead of getting the most out of the short space of time
allotted to him and having Billy alone somewhere, here he was shaking
hands with a frowsy bunch of highbrows.
"Mr. Batchelor, would you invest in copper, if you were I?" queried an
elderly maiden whose hand he had weakly grasped and but just dropped.
The Watermelon looked around, desperately, miserably. Billy was gazing
at him from the edge of the crowd, awe fighting with admiration and
amusement on her small face. Henrietta had presented him gaily, to this
one and that, and the general, thoroughly in his element, stood by and
showed him off as though he were a new horse or the latest model
motor-car.
"No," said the Watermelon. "I would not invest in copper."
"Have you any copper?" questioned another with a wink that the great man
was caught.
"No," repeated the Watermelon with the animation of a hitching-post. "I
have no copper. I have never had any, not even pennies," he added,
thinking how fast the time was going and he would become a tramp again,
with ragged clothes and empty pockets, while Billy would still
be--Billy.
Every one laughed and the general essayed a joke on his own account.
"Greenbacks are a better investment," said he, "and you have invested in
them pretty well."
"How could you tear yourself away from the Street?" asked one
impressionable young thing.
"I don't know," said the Watermelon. "Wall Street is practically my
home." And he gazed languidly over their heads into the trees across
the road.
"Oh, Mr. Batchelor, do you think the tariff will affect the cost of
living?" inquired another of his new friends. "So many people claim
that it will."
Henrietta laughed. "Poor Mr. Batchelor," said she. "You can now
realize some of the drawbacks to greatness."
"The tariff," said the Watermelon monotonously, "is all right. Take it
from me."
He glanced again at Billy. The clock in the garage struck two and he
hesitated no longer. "My car," he muttered vaguely, and made for the
steps. He ran down them and started around the hotel toward the
stables. As he passed near the place where Billy stood, he looked up
straight into her eyes.
"Aren't you coming to see my car--Billy?" he asked, the odd little name
below his breath, so that even she did not hear.
"Oh, yes, indeed," said Billy.
He caught her hands and swung her down to the lawn beside him.
At the garage they did not stop. The Watermelon heard the general
panting behind in the distance, but he did not pause. Ungratefully he
led the way down a narrow path around the stable, into the deep, cool
shade of the woods. It was two. He would give himself until the clock
struck three, before he slunk away into the unknown again.
*CHAPTER VI*
*WHAT IS HEAVEN LIKE*
They found a little mossy knoll beside the brook and Billy made herself
comfortable against a tree trunk, while the Watermelon sprawled at her
feet.
"Say," said he, "what do those guys take me for? The editor of the
'Answer to correspondents' page?"
"I bet you know as much," said Billy with artless simplicity.
"Sure, I know as much," grinned the Watermelon. "But I'm not paid to
tell what I know. It would be starvation rates for mine," he added.
Billy laughed. "Didn't you ever go to school?" she asked.
"Yes, I went to school, when father didn't forget."
"Didn't forget?"
"He had eight kids, you see, and he used to say a man couldn't be
responsible for more than six. Two kids, he used to say, were a
blessing, four a care, six a burden, and eight an affliction, and no man
is responsible for his afflictions."
"I wish I had some relatives," said Billy wistfully. "There are only
daddy and I. Don't you like relatives, some one who belongs to you?"
"Father used to say that relatives were an affliction, and he supposed a
man had to have afflictions to make a man of him, but if he had had any
influence with Providence, he would have preferred not to be a man."
"Who was your father?" asked Billy.
"A minister," answered the Watermelon, clasping his hands behind his
head and staring up at the interlaced boughs overhead. "A country
minister. He used to say that there was just one thing in this world
more pitiful than a country minister, and that was his wife."
"Why," cried Billy, "the papers said he used to be a policeman."
"I thought you didn't read the papers?"
"I don't, just the Sunday supplements," said Billy frankly, as one to
whom his intellectual development is of minor importance.
The Watermelon wheeled over with a laugh and caught her hand. "Hang
dad!" he exclaimed. "Where'd you get your name?"
He drew himself up on the log beside her, as near as he dared. He
wanted to put his arm around the slim waist, but decided that he had
better not.
She jerked her hand away and laughed, her small nose wrinkled, the
dimple coming and going. "Don't you like it?"
"Sure. It's classy, all right. But what is the long of it?"
"Wilhelmina. Dad's is William, just like yours. We're all Billies."
"Mine ain't William," sneered the Watermelon, edging a bit nearer.
Her eyes opened and she stared in frank surprise. "But the papers
say--"
"The papers lie faster than I can," said the Watermelon, "and that's
fairly speedy." He had only an hour and he did not care what she
thought between him and the papers. "Billy is a darned cute little
name, and a cute little girl," he added.
"I guess you can lie faster than the papers," said she.
"I can when I want to," admitted the Watermelon. "Father used to say
that a man that couldn't lie was a fool and one who wouldn't, a bigger."
"I should think if your father was a minister that he wouldn't lie,"
said Billy severely.
"I know. But he used to say he had to in a business way. To tell a man
that there was a bigger hell than this earth was a lie on the face of
it."
"Why?"
"Because there couldn't be, he used to say."
"Don't you believe in Heaven?" demanded Billy.
"Sure," said the Watermelon.
"What do you think it's like?" asked Billy.
"A watermelon patch," said the Watermelon promptly. "Just when all the
fruit is ripe. Don't you think so?"
"I think it's an ice-cream counter," said Billy.
"Naw. At an ice-cream counter you would have to have money."
"Not in Heaven, you wouldn't," said Billy. "It would all be free and you
could have as much as you wanted."
"Who would wait on you? Any one could pick a watermelon, but everybody
can't mix an ice-cream soda."
"The bad people would. That would be hell, you see, always serving it
to others and never allowed to taste any."
"That wouldn't work, either," objected the Watermelon. "Because there
would be so many more to do the serving than there would be people to
serve. No, we are both wrong. Heaven is a grove of trees back of a
white garage. There's a fallen log and a couple sitting on it."
"I should think that would be monotonous," said Billy. "Do they talk?"
"Sure, they talk. Heaven ain't a deaf and dumb asylum."
"I should think they would get talked out during eternity."
"Ah," said the Watermelon, leaning a bit nearer, "eternity is but a
minute."
"What do they talk about?"
"Heaven."
"Are they angels?"
"One is."
Billy laughed. "Who are you?" she asked, leaning toward him, one hand
resting on the log between them, her steady eyes on his face.
The Watermelon again drew forth the card case, extracted a card and
presented it to her with a flourish.
Holding it, she shook her head dubiously. "I mean are you a
stock-broker? Are you on 'Change? Father has been nearly all his life,
and he looks it. His eyes and--everything. Your eyes are different,
quite different. I don't mean in color and size, for of course they
would be, but in expression."
"How do you know?" asked the Watermelon. "You have only seen their
expression when I have been looking at you, and a man doesn't look at a
girl as if she were the tape from the ticker."
"I know," acknowledged Billy. "But I have known brokers all my life,
and some have been young, and they--they aren't like you. I never sat
on a log with one and talked about Heaven."
"Well, you see, I am a minister's son, and I had Heaven with every meal,
as it were."
"Maybe that's it," agreed Billy.
A stick snapped behind them as though some one were approaching their
retreat with stealthy tread under cover of the friendly bushes.
"Are you afraid of cows?" asked Billy, glancing over her shoulder
fearfully.
"Not of female cows," said the Watermelon.
"A broker wouldn't have said that," objected Billy, pursing up her
mouth. "A broker would say, 'No, indeed, Miss Bartlett. Don't be
afraid. A cow is really harmless,' and smile as if I were young and
half-witted, anyway."
A stick snapped again, nearer, and a woodpecker fled from a group of
trees, scolding angrily.