Jacobs come in late that afternoon.
"Say," says he, "there was a sample of the Eureka screen in Parkinson’s
office when I was there just now. He wouldn’t say who left it or
anything about it. When I asked he grinned and winked. That’s all.
Confound his fat head! Do you know where it came from?"
"I can guess," I says; and then I told him the whole yarn. He was as
surprised as I was to find out that Geo. Lentz was a female; but it only
made him madder than ever—if such a thing’s possible.
"Wants to be treated like a man, does she?" he says. "All right; we’ll
treat her like one. She may be Georgianna, but she’ll get just what was
comin’ to George."
"Then you won’t agree to puttin’ in the bids and lettin’ it go at that?"
"I’ll agree to get that screen contract, all right!" says he, emphatic.
I was kind of sorry for Miss Lentz; but Jim Henry was my partner, so
there wa’n’t nothin’ more to be said. We didn’t mention the subject
again for two days. However, I did hear from the Eureka agent durin’
that time. ’Twas ’Dolph that I got my news of her from. I was tellin’
Mary Blaisdell about her and Cahoon happened to be standin’ by.
"So she boards here in Ostable," says Mary. "I wonder where."
Afore I could answer ’Dolph spoke up. "She’s stoppin’ at Maria Berry’s,
down on the Neck Road," he says.
"How did you know?" I asked.
He looked sort of silly. "Oh, I found out," says he, and walked off.
The very next evenin’, as I was strollin’ along the sidewalk, smokin’ my
good-night pipe, I happened to see somebody turn the corner from the
Neck Road and hurry by me. I thought his gait and build were pretty
familiar, so I turned and followed. When he got abreast the lighted
windows of the billiard saloon I recognized him. ’Twas ’Dolph, all
togged out in his Sunday-go-to-meetin’ duds, light fall overcoat and
all.
"Humph!" says I to myself. "So that’s how you knew, hey? Been callin’ on
her, have you? Well, she may not hanker for my sympathy, but she has it
just the same. I swan, I thought she had better taste! I’m surprised!"
The followin’ mornin’, however, I was more surprised still. I had an
errand that made me late at the store. When I came in who should I see
talkin’ together but Jacobs and a young woman; the young woman was Miss
Georgianna Lentz. They ought to have been quarrelin’, ’cordin’ to all
reasonable expectations; but they wa’n’t. Fact is, they seemed as
friendly as could be. You’d have thought they was old chums to see ’em.
Georgianna sighted me fust.
"Good mornin’, Cap’n Snow," says she. "Mr. Jacobs and I have made each
other’s acquaintance, you see."
"Yes," says I, doubtful. "I see you have. I cal’late you think it’s kind
of unreasonable, our not—"
Jim Henry cut in ahead of me quick as a flash.
"Miss Lentz and I have been goin’ over the matter of screens for
Parkinson’s hotel," he says. "I tell her that her proposition suits us
down to the ground."
Over I went on my beam-ends again. All I could think of to say was:
"Hey?"—and I said that pretty feeble.
"It is very nice of you to do this," says Georgianna. "It makes it so
much easier for me. Of course, when I decided to make business my
life-work, I realized that I might be called upon to do disagreeable
things like—like wire-pullin’, and so on, which some business people do;
but honorable rivalry is so much better, isn’t it?"
"Sure!" says Jacobs, prompt. "Yes, indeed."
"So it is all settled," she went on. "Our bids are to go in on the same
day; and meantime neither of us is to call on Mr. Parkinson or to meet
him—in a business way, I mean."
I nodded, bein’ still too upset to talk; but Jim Henry spoke quick and
prompt.
"What do you mean," he asks—"in a business way?"
"Why," says she—and it seemed to me that she reddened a little—"I mean
that—well, if we should meet him by accident we wouldn’t talk about
screens or the hotel contract. Of course one can’t help meetin’ people
sometimes. For instance, I happened to meet Mr. Parkinson yesterday. He
had driven over and happened to be in the vicinity of the house where I
board. I was goin’ out for a walk, and he stopped his horse and spoke."
"Oh," says I, "he did, hey?" Jim Henry didn’t say nothin’.
"Yes," she says; "but I didn’t talk about the contract. Though our
agreement wasn’t actually made then, I hoped that it would be. Good
mornin’; I must be goin’."
She started for the door, but she turned to say one more thing.
"Of course," she says, decided, "it is understood that you haven’t
agreed to my proposal simply because I am a girl. If that was the case I
shouldn’t permit it. I insist upon bein’ treated exactly as if I were a
man. You must promise that—both of you."
"Sure! Sure! That’s understood," says Jacobs.
I said "Sure!" too, but my tone wa’n’t quite so sartin. She went out,
Jim Henry goin’ with her as fur as the door. I follered him.
"Say," says I, "next time you turn a back somerset like this I’d like to
know about it in advance. I’ve got a weak heart."
He didn’t answer me at all. He was starin’ down the road, just as ’Dolph
had stared when the Eureka agent called the fust time.
"Say, Jim—" says I. He didn’t turn or move; didn’t seem to hear me. I
touched him on the shoulder and he jumped and come about.
"Eh—what?" he says.
"Nothin’," says I, "only I want to know why—that’s all."
"Why?" says he. "Oh!—you mean what made me change my mind? Well, I just
thought it over and decided we might as well agree. Agreein’ don’t do
any harm, you know. Hey, Skipper? Ha-ha!"
He slapped me on the shoulder and laughed. The laugh seemed too big for
the joke and sounded a little mite forced, I thought.
"Yes, yes! Ha-ha!" says I. "But your changin’ from lion to lamb so
sudden—"
"What are you talkin’ about? I’ve got a right to change my mind, ain’t
I?"
"Sartin sure. But you was so set on gettin’ that contract."
"Well, I ain’t said I wasn’t goin’ to get it, have I? We’re goin’ to put
in a bid, ain’t we? What’s the matter with you?"
"Nothin’ at all; but _your_ breakfast don’t seem to have set extry well!
However, it takes two to make a row, and I’m peaceful, myself. What do
you think of the rival entry? Kind of a nice-appearin’ girl—don’t you
think so?"
He whirled round and looked at me as if he thought I was crazy.
"Nice-appearin’!" he says. "Nice-ap—Why, she’s—"
Then he pulled up short and headed for the back room.
Nothin’ of much importance happened for a while after that. And yet
there was somethin’—two or three somethin’s—that had a bearin’ on the
case. One was the change in ’Dolph Cahoon. For a few days after that
night I met him on the road he was as gay and chipper as a blackbird in
a pear tree—happy even when I made him work, which was surprisin’
enough. And then, all to once, he turned glum and ugly. Wouldn’t speak
and seemed to be broodin’ over his troubles all day long. I had my
suspicions; and so, one time when him and me was alone, I hove over a
little mite of bait just to see if he’d rise to it.
"Seen anything of the Lentz girl lately?" I asked, casual.
"Naw," says he, "and I don’t want to, neither! She’s a bird, she is! Too
stuck up to speak to common folks. Everybody’s gettin’ on to her—you
bet! She won’t make many friends in this town."
I grinned to myself. Thinks I: "I guess, young man, Georgianna’s handed
you your walkin’ papers. You won’t go down the Neck Road any more!"
And yet, an evenin’ or so after that, I see somebody go down that road.
I didn’t see him plain, but I’d have almost taken my oath ’twas Jim
Henry Jacobs. It couldn’t be, of course—and yet—
Well, two days later, I took back the "yet." I happened to be standin’
at the side door of the store, lookin’ across the fields, when I saw an
auto with two people in it sailin’ along the crossroad from the
east’ard. ’Twas a runabout auto—and I looked and looked! Then I called
to ’Dolph.
"’Dolph," says I, "come here! Who’s automobile’s that? If I didn’t know
Mr. Jacobs was off takin’ orders in Denboro I should say ’twas his."
'Dolph looked.
"Humph!" says he—"’tis his. He’s drivin’ it himself. But who’s that with
him? What? Well, by gosh! if it ain’t that stuck-up Georgianna Lentz!"
"Get out!" says I. "The softness of your heart has struck to your head.
It’s likely he’d be takin’ her to ride, ain’t it!"
And then Jacobs looked up and sighted us standin’ in the doorway. His
machine hadn’t been goin’ slow afore—now it fairly jumped off the ground
and flew. In a minute there was nothin’ but a dust-cloud in the offin’.
He came in about noon. I didn’t say nothin’, but I guess my face was
enough. He looked at me, turned away—and then turned back again.
"Well," he says, loud and cheerful, "you saw us, didn’t you? I was goin’
to tell you, anyway, soon as I got the chance."
"Oh," says I, "I want to know!"
"Sure, I was. Of course you see through the game."
"The game?"
"Why, yes, yes! The game I’m playin’—the game that’s goin’ to get us
that screen contract! Oh, I wasn’t born yesterday. I knew a thing or
two. This—er—Lentz girl and you and me have agreed not to go near
Parkinson till the contract’s given out; but Parkinson ain’t promised
not to go near her! He’s been over there two or three times lately, and
that won’t do. He’s a widower, and—"
"A widower!" I put in. "What’s that got to do with it?"
"Oh, nothin’—nothin’. Just a joke, that’s all. But I realized right away
that she and he mustn’t be together or he’ll make her talk screens in
spite of herself, and that’ll be dangerous for us. So, says I to myself,
’Jim Henry,’ says I, ’it’s up to you. You must keep her out of his way.’
That’s why I’ve been goin’ to see her once in a while and—and takin’ her
to ride, and—and so on. See? Oh, I’m wise! You trust your old doctor of
sick businesses."
He’d been talkin’ a blue streak. Seemed almost as if he was afraid I’d
say somethin’ afore he could say it all. Now he stopped to get his
breath and I put in a word.
"So," says I, slow, "that’s why you’re doin’ it, hey? But ain’t that—You
know you promised to treat her just as if she was a man!"
"Well, ain’t I?" he snaps—hotter than was needful, I thought. "If she
was a man I’d make it my business to keep her in sight, wouldn’t I?
Well, then! I never saw such a chap as you are for lookin’ for trouble
when there isn’t any."
He stalked off. I follered him; and as I done so I noticed ’Dolph Cahoon
duck behind the calico counter. I judged he’d heard every word.
The finishin’ work on the hotel hustled along and inside of a month we
got word that ’twas time to put in our bid. Jacobs and I figured and
figured till we got the price down to the last cent we thought it could
stand, and then we sent our proposition over to Parkinson by mail.
"Wonder if Miss Georgianna’s sent hers in," I says, casual.
"Oh, yes," says Jim, prompt; "she is goin’ to mail it this morning’."
I didn’t ask him how he knew. His chasin’ round and keepin’ watch on a
girl who was as fair-minded and square as she was had always seemed too
much like spyin’ to please me, and I cal’lated he knew how I felt—at any
rate he’d scurcely spoke her name since the day when I saw ’em autoin’
together. But now I did say that, so long as the bids was in, it
wouldn’t be necessary for him to keep his eye on her any longer.
He looked at me kind of queer. "Umph!" he says; "maybe not!" And he
walked away to attend to a customer.
That afternoon he took his car and went off on his reg’lar order trip to
Denboro and Bayport and round. ’Dolph Cahoon and I was alone in the
front part of the store. ’Dolph seemed to be in mighty good spirits—for
him—and kept chucklin’ to himself in a way I couldn’t understand. At
last he says to me, lookin’ back to be sure that Mary Blaisdell, in the
post-office department, couldn’t hear—
"Cap’n Zeb," he says, "what would you give the feller that got the
screen contract for you?"
"Give him?" I says. "What feller do you mean—Parkinson? I wouldn’t give
him a cent! I ain’t a briber and I don’t think he’s a grafter."
"I don’t mean Parkinson," he says, chucklin’. "But, suppose somebody
else had been workin’ for you on the quiet, what would you give him?"
I looked him over.
"Look here, ’Dolph," says I; "I never try to guess a riddle till I hear
the whole of it. What are you drivin’ at?"
He grinned. "I know who’s goin’ to get that contract," he says.
"You do. Who is it?"
"The Ostable Store’s goin’ to get it. Your bid’s a little mite the
lowest. Parkinson told me so last night."
"Parkinson told you!" I sung out. "How did you happen to see Parkinson?"
He winked.
"Oh, I saw him!" says he. "I’ve seen him a good many times lately. I
made it my business to see him. He was pretty stuck on the Eureka till I
got after him and I cal’late he’d have contracted for Eurekas, bid or no
bid. But I put in my licks; I’ve drove over to West Ostable four nights
and two Sundays in the last fortni’t. And didn’t I preach Nonesuch to
him! He-he! You bet I did! And last night he said he was goin’ to give
us the job. Oh, I fixed that stuck-up Georgianna Lentz! I got even with
her. He-he-he!"
I never was madder in my life. I took two steps toward him with my fists
doubled up.
"You whelp!" says I—and then I stopped short. The Lentz girl herself was
walkin’ in at the front door.
"Good mornin’, Cap’n Snow," she says, holdin’ out her hand. She paid no
more attention to ’Dolph than if he’d been a graven image. "Good
mornin’," says she. "It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?"
I was past carin’ about the weather.
"Miss Georgianna," says I, "I’m glad you come in. I’ve got somethin’ to
tell you. I’ve got to beg your pardon for somethin’ that ain’t my fault
or Mr. Jacobs’, either. You and my partner and me had an agreement not
to go nigh Parkinson or try to influence him in any way. Well, unbeknown
to me, that agreement has been broke."
She stared at me, too astonished to speak.
"It’s been broke," says I. "That—that critter there," pointin’ to
’Dolph, "has been sneakin—"
'Dolph’s face had been gettin’ redder and redder, I cal’late he thought
I’d praise him for his doin’s; and when he found I wouldn’t, but was
goin’ to give the whole thing away, he blew up like a leaky b’iler.
"I ain’t been sneakin’!" he yelled. "And I ain’t broke no agreement,
neither. You and Mr. Jacobs agreed—but I never. I see Parkinson on my
own hook; and if it hadn’t been for me he wouldn’t be goin’ to give you
the contract."
[Illustration: _'I ain’t been sneakin’!’ he yelled._]
There ’twas, out of the bag. I looked at Georgianna. Her pretty face
went white. That contract meant all creation to her; but she stood up to
the news like a major. She was plucky, that girl!
"Oh!" she says. "Oh! Then he has given you the contract? I—I
congratulate you, Cap’n Snow."
"Don’t congratulate me," says I. "The contract ain’t been given yet,
though this pup says it’s goin’ to be; but, as for me, if I’d known what
was goin’ on I’d have stopped it mighty quick! I’m honorable and decent,
and so’s Jacobs; and we don’t take underhanded advantages."
'Dolph bust out from astern of the counter.
"You don’t, hey!" says he. "I want to know! How about Jacobs’ takin’ her
to ride and callin’ on her, and pretendin’ to be dead gone on her? What
did he do that for? You know as well as I do. 'Twas so’s to keep a watch
on her, and not let Parkinson see her and be influenced into buyin’
Eureka screens. You know it!"
My own face grew red now, I cal’late.
"You—you—" I begun. "You miserable liar—"
"’Tain’t a lie," says he. "I heard him tell you with my own ears. He
said all he was beauin’ her round for was just that. If that ain’t a
underhanded trick then I don’t know what is."
I wanted to say lots more; but, afore I could get my talkin’ machinery
to runnin’, the Lentz girl herself spoke.
"Is that true, Cap’n Snow?" says she.
I was set back forty fathom.
"Well, miss," says I, "I—I—"
"Is that true?" says she.
I got out my handkerchief and swabbed my forehead.
"Well, Miss Georgianna," says I, "I’ll tell you. Jim Henry—Mr. Jacobs, I
mean—did say somethin’ like that; but—but—Well, you wanted to be treated
like a salesman, and—er—Mr. Jacobs would have kept his eye on a man, you
know; and so—and so—"
I stopped again. ’Twas the shoalest water ever I cruised in. All I could
do was mop away with the handkerchief and look at Georgianna. And
she—well, the color, and plenty of it, begun to come back to her cheeks.
And how her brown eyes did flash!
"I see," she says, slow and so frosty I pretty nigh shivered. "I—see!"
"Well," says I, "’tain’t anything I’m proud of, I will admit; but—"
"One moment, if you please. You haven’t actually got the contract yet?"
"No. As I told you, all I know is what this consarned fo’mast hand of
mine says. For what he’s done, I’m ashamed as I can be. As for Mr.
Jacobs, I know he did keep to the letter of the agreement, anyhow. For
the rest—Well, all’s fair in love and war, they say—and there’s precious
little love in business."
She looked at me, with a queer little smile about the corners of her
lips, though her eyes wa’n’t smilin’, by a consider’ble sight.
"Isn’t there?" she says. "I—I wonder. Good-by, Cap’n Snow. You might
tell Mr. Jacobs not to order those Nonesuch screens just yet."
Out she went; and for the next five minutes I had a real enjoyable time.
I told ’Dolph Cahoon just what I thought of him—that took four of the
minutes; durin’ the other one I fired him and run him out of the office
by the scruff of the neck.
Then Mary Blaisdell and me held officers’ council, and that ended by our
decidin’ not to tell Jim Henry that the Lentz girl knew why he’d been so
friendly with her. It wouldn’t do any good and might make him feel bad.
Besides, the contract was as good as got, ’cordin’ to ’Dolph’s yarn; and
’twa’n’t likely he’d see Georgianna again, anyway. When he come back I
told him I’d fired Cahoon for bein’ no good and sassy, and he agreed I’d
done just right.
When I said good night to him he was chipper as could be; but next day
he was blue as a whetstone—and the blueness seemed to strike in, so to
speak. He didn’t take any interest in anything—moped round, glum and
ugly; and I couldn’t get him to talk at all. If I mentioned the screen
contract he shut up like a quahaug, and only once did he give an opinion
about it. That opinion was a surprisin’ one, though.
Alpheus Perkins was in the store, and says he:
"Say, Mr. Jacobs," he says, "is old Parkinson, the hotel man, cal’latin’
to get married again? I see him out ridin’ with a girl yesterday? That
female screen drummer—that Georgianna Lentz, 'twas. She’s a daisy, ain’t
she! I don’t blame him much for takin’ a shine to her."
Jim Henry didn’t make any answer; but, knowin’ what I did, I was a
little surprised.
"Jim," says I, "that contract—"
"D—n the contract!" says he, and cleared out and left us.
I was astonished, but I guessed ’twas a healthy plan to keep my hatches
closed.
When I opened the mail a few mornin’s later I found a letter with the
West Ostable Hotel’s name printed on the envelope. I figgered I knew
what was inside. Thinks I: "Here’s the acceptance of our bid!" But my
figgers was on the wrong side of the ledger. Parkinson wrote just a few
words, but they was enough. After considerin’ the matter careful, he
wrote, he had decided the Eureka to be a better screen than the
Nonesuch; and, though our bid was a trifle lower, he should give the
Eureka folks the contract.
"Well!" says I out loud. "Well, I’ll—be—blessed!"
Jim Henry was settin’ at his desk—we was all alone in the store—and he
looked up.
"What are you askin’ a blessin’ over?" says he.
I handed him the letter. He read it through and set for a full minute
without speakin’. Then he slammed it into the wastebasket and got up and
started to go away.
"For thunder sakes!" I sung out. "What ails you? Ain’t you goin’ to say
nothin’ at all?"
"What is there to say?" he asked, gruff. "We’re stung—and that’s the end
of it."
"But—but—don’t you realize—Why, our bid was the lowest! And yet the
contract—"
He whirled on me savage.
"Didn’t I tell you," says he, "that I didn’t give a durn about the
contract?"
"You don’t! _You_ don’t! Then who on airth does?"
"I don’t know and I don’t care!"
"You don’t care! I swan to man! Why, ’twas you that swore you’d put the
screens in that hotel or die tryin’. You said ’twas a matter of
principle with you. And now that the Eureka folks have beat us by some
shenanigan or other—for our bid was lower than theirs—you say you don’t
care! Have you gone loony? What _do_ you care about?"
"Nothin’—much," says he, and flopped down in his chair again.
I stared at him. All at once I begun to see a light. You’d have thought
anybody that wa’n’t stone blind would have seen it afore—but I hadn’t.
You see, I cal’lated that I knew him from trunk to keelson, and so it
never once occurred to me. I riz and walked over to him. Just as I done
so, I heard the front door open and shut, but I figgered ’twas Mary
comin’ back, and didn’t even look. I laid my hand on his shoulder.
"Jim," says I, "I guess likely I understand. I declare I’m sorry! And
yet I wouldn’t wonder if—"
I didn’t go on. He wa’n’t payin’ any attention, but was lookin’ over the
top of his desk—lookin’ with all the eyes in his head. I looked, too,
and caught my breath with a jerk. The person who’d come in wa’n’t Mary
Blaisdell, but Georgianna Lentz.
She saw us and walked straight down to where we was. She was kind of
pale and her eyes looked as if she’d been awake all night; but when she
spoke 'twas right to the point—there wa’n’t any hesitation about her.
"Cap’n Snow," says she, "have you heard from Mr. Parkinson?"
"Yes," says I, wonderin; "we’ve heard. We don’t understand exactly, but
perhaps that ain’t necessary. I cal’late all there is left for us to do
is to offer congratulations and ’go ’way back and set down,’ as the boys
say. You’ve got the contract."
"Yes," she says; "it has been given to me. But—"
Jim Henry stood up. "You’ll excuse me," he says, sharp. "I’m busy."
He started to go, but she stopped him.
"No," she says; "I want you both to hear what I’ve got to say. Mr.
Parkinson gave me the contract yesterday; but I have decided not to take
it."
We both looked at her.
"You—you’ve what?" says I. "Not take it? You want it, don’t you?"
"Yes," she says, quiet but determined, "I want it—or I did want it very,
very much. It meant so much to me—now—and might mean a great deal more
in the future; but I can’t take it."
This was too many for me. I looked at Jacobs. He didn’t say a word.
"I can’t take it," says Georgianna, "under the circumstances. I don’t
feel that I got it fairly. We agreed, you and I, that no personal
influence should be brought to bear upon Mr. Parkinson; and I"—she
blushed a little, but kept right on—"I have seen Mr. Parkinson several
times durin’ the past week."
I thought of her bein’ to ride with the hotel man, but I didn’t say
anything. Jim Henry, though, started again to go. And again she stopped
him.
"Wait, please!" she went on. "I didn’t go to him—you must understand
that! But after what you, Cap’n Snow, and that Mr. Cahoon told me the
other day I was hurt and angry. I felt that you had broken your
agreement with me. So when Mr. Parkinson came to see me I didn’t avoid
him as I had been doin’. I—I accepted invitations for drives with him,
and—and—Oh, don’t you see? I couldn’t take the contract. I couldn’t!
What would you think of me? What would I think of myself? No, my mind is
made up. I’m afraid"—with a half smile that had more tears than fun in
it—"that my experience in business hasn’t been a success. I shall give
it up and go back to stenography—or somethin’. There! Good-by. I’m sure
that the Nonesuch screen will win now. Good-by!"
And now ’twas she that started to go and Jim Henry that stopped her.
"Wait!" says he, sharp. "There’s somethin’ here I don’t understand. What
do you mean by what the Cap’n and Cahoon told you the other day?
Skipper, what have you been doin’?"
I wished there was a crack or a knothole handy for me to crawl into; but
there wa’n’t, so I braced up best I could.
"Why, Jim," says I, "I ain’t told you the whole of that business I fired
’Dolph for. Seems he’d been seein’ Parkinson on his own hook and pullin’
wires for the Nonesuch. ’Twas a sneakin’ mean trick, and I knew ’twould
make you mad same as it done me; so I didn’t tell you. ’Twas for that I
bounced him."
Jim Henry’s fists shut.
"The toad!" says he. "I wish I’d been there. Wait till I get my hands on
him! I’ll—"
"But you mustn’t," put in Georgianna. "I hope you don’t think I care
what such a creature as he might do. When I first came here he—Oh, why
can’t people forget that I’m a girl!"
I could have answered that, but I didn’t. Jacobs asked another question.
"Then, if it wa’n’t ’Dolph, who was it?" says he. "Parkinson?"
"No!" with a flash of her eyes. "Certainly not. Mr. Parkinson is a
gentleman; but—but I don’t like him—that is, I don’t dislike him
exactly; but—"
She was dreadful fussed up. Jim Henry was between her and the door,
though, and he kept right on with his questions.
"Then what was the trouble?" he said, brisk.
I answered for her.
"Well, Jim," says I, "there was somethin’ else. You see, ’Dolph got mad
when I sailed into him, and he come back at me by tellin’ what you said
about your callin’ on Miss Lentz here—and takin’ her autoin’ and such.
How you said you was doin’ it so’s to keep a watch on her—that’s all. I
couldn’t deny that you did say it, you know—because you did!"
Jim’s face was a sight to see—a sort of combination of sheepishness and
shame, mixed with another look, almost of joy—or as if he’d got the
answer to a puzzle that had been troublin’ him.
The Lentz girl spoke up quick.
"Of course," she says, "I understand now why you did it. Then I
was—was—Well, it did hurt me to think that I hadn’t seen through the
scheme, and for a while I felt that you hadn’t been true to our
agreement; but, now that I have had time to think, I understand. You
promised to treat me exactly as if I were a man; and, as Cap’n Snow
said, if I were a man you would have kept me in sight. It’s all right!
But"—with a sigh—"I realize that I’m not fitted for business—this kind
of business. I don’t blame you, though. Good-by. I must go!"
Lettin’ her go, however, was the last thing Jim intended doin’ just
then. He stepped for’ard and caught her by the hand.
"Georgianna," says he, eager, "you know what you’re sayin’ isn’t true. I
did tell the Cap’n that yarn about watchin’ you. He’d seen me with you
and I had to tell him somethin’; but it was a lie—every word of it! You
know it was."
She tried to pull her hand away, but he hung on to it as if ’twas the
last life-preserver on a sinkin’ ship. I cal’late he’d forgot I was on
earth.
"You were keeping your promise," she said. "You were treatin’ me as you
would if I were a man! Please let me go, Mr. Jacobs; I have told you
that I didn’t blame you."
"Nonsense!" says he. "If I had done that I ought to be hung! A man!
Treat you like a man! Do you suppose if you were a man I should—"
That was the last word I heard. I was bound for the front platform, and
makin’ some headway for a craft of my age and build. I have got some
sense and I know when three’s a crowd!
I didn’t go back until they called me. I give the pair of ’em one look
and then I shook hands with ’em up to the elbows. Georgianna was
blushin’, and her eyes were damp, but shinin’ like masthead lights on a
rainy night. As for Jim Henry Jacobs, he was one broad grin.
"Well," says I, after I’d said all the joyful things I could think of,
"one point ain’t settled even yet—who’s goin’ to get that screen
contract? There ain’t any love in business, you know."
"Humph!" says Jim Henry. "I wonder!"
I laughed out loud.
"Why," says I, "that’s exactly what Georgianna here said t’other day—she
wondered!"