THE THIRD FAIR LADY
Two old men were crossing Maple Street as Lansing swung into it from the
dirt road. They quickened their steps and from the safety of the
sidewalk glanced at the occupants of the car.
“Wasn’t that Oliver October?” demanded Mr. Sikes, pursuing the car with
an outraged gaze.
“It was,” replied Mr. Link, putting his hand to his side. “He yelled at
us. Lordy, I’m too fat to hurry like that.” He strode on a few paces
before discovering that he walked alone. Mr. Sikes had stopped
stock-still and was gazing blankly after the receding roadster. “Come
on! What’s the matter with you?”
“Say, did you notice? Did you notice that woman sitting on his lap?”
“She wasn’t doing anything of the kind. She was sitting between ’em.”
“Well, anyhow, this settles everything,” said Mr. Sikes weakly. “He’s as
good as hung right now. Absolutely.”
“What the—”
“Say, are you blind? Can’t you see _anything_ at all?”
“I can see a darned sight better than you can, and you know it,”
retorted Mr. Link hotly. “You can’t see ten feet in front of you. How
many fingers am I holding up?”
“Oh, go to thunder! What I’m asking you is, did you notice her?”
“Certainly—that is, I noticed the back of her head.”
“Well, what color was it?” demanded Mr. Sikes.
“I didn’t notice,” said Mr. Link.
“You didn’t, eh? Of course, you didn’t. The only way you ever notice
anything is when I tell you to notice it. It was yaller.”
“Yaller? Well, what of it?”
“Oh, nothing—nothing at all,” exclaimed Mr. Sikes, throwing up his
hands in a gesture of supreme disgust. “Nothing at all, except she’s the
third yaller-haired one to come into his life. The one that was here
last fall that he took such a shine to, and the one he confesses to
being gone on out in Idaho or somewheres. Two dark and three fair women,
is what she said. Didn’t she? Wait a minute! Answer me. Didn’t she?”
“She did,” said Mr. Link, his brow clouding. “But he’s only had one dark
one, far as we know,” he added hopefully. “That girl he says he was
engaged to over in China.”
“What do you call Jane Sage? You wouldn’t call her a blonde, would you?”
“Certainly not. But what’s Jane got to do with it?”
“She’s got a lot to do with it. She’s a dark woman, ain’t she?”
“Not especially. Brown or chestnut, I’d say.”
“Well, say _bay_, if you want to,” roared Mr. Sikes. “And I’ll tell you
something you don’t know about Jane. She’s in love with Oliver, and
always has been.”
“Go on!”
“That makes her one of the dark women, don’t it? And she makes two,
don’t she? And this here new one—the one that was setting in his
lap—she makes the third fair one, don’t she? Well, what you got to say
to that? This is the last straw. I been prayin’ to God that we could get
through the year without another light woman turning up. And here she
comes, right when everything was looking safe. I—”
“He won’t take any notice of this yaller-haired girl,” said Mr. Link,
with an air of finality. “I can tell you something about Oliver that you
don’t know. He’s in love with Jane, as the saying is, and always has
been.”
Mr. Sikes stopped again in his tracks and glowered at Mr. Link. “Who
told you that?” he demanded.
Mr. Link took time to search several tree tops before answering. Then he
solemnly said: “I’m not sure it was the one I see perched over yonder at
the top of that second tree, but if it wasn’t that one it was one just
like it. A little bird told me.”
“Talk sense! Who told you Oliver was in love with Jane?”
“Doc Lansing. Not more than a week ago he told me Oliver was head over
heels in love with her. I guess he ought to know. He sees a good deal of
both of ’em.”
“Well, I’ll be—Why, dod-gast it, he’s the one that told me Jane was in
love with Oliver.”
“Well,” began Mr. Link after they had proceeded up Maple Street some
fifteen or twenty paces, “if he’s telling the truth, I guess you don’t
need to worry about this yaller-haired one any longer, Joe.”
Mr. Sikes shook his head. “I’m not so sure about that. He’s partial to
blondes, seems to me. I’ll have to talk to that boy, Silas. I’ve told
him a hundred times to beware of light women, and here he goes—”
“Come on! Oliver got out of the car up in front of the Reverend Sage’s
and it’s going on without him. That proves we’re right, Joe. That
telegram to Reverend Sage was—”
“It wasn’t a telegram. It was a cable. Marmaduke Smith told me; not five
minutes after he delivered it.”
“No matter. It’s from Ollie. He’s telegraphing Sage to break some kind
of news to Oliver. Dying somewheres maybe. That’s why they sent Doc
Lansing for Oliver October. Come on—step along a little, Joe. I think
I’ve sized the thing up. The minute I heard Sage had got a telegram I
says to myself, it’s from Ollie. I—”
“If you save your breath you can walk faster,” interrupted Mr. Sikes,
stepping forth with renewed vigor. Mr. Link was half a block in the rear
when his companion turned in at the parsonage.
It was true that Josephine Sage was coming home. The beatific minister
thrust the cablegram into Oliver’s hand as that young man came bounding
up the veranda steps.
“She’s coming on the _Baltic_. I have decided to go to New York to meet
her. Jane will accompany me. I wish you would find out for me, Oliver,
when the _Baltic_ is due to arrive at New York. I am so upset, so
distracted I do not seem to know just which way to turn. Please help me
out, lad. Perhaps I should have telegraphed myself—or had Jane do
it—but we—I mean _I_—er—”
“Don’t you give it another thought, Uncle Herbert,” cried Oliver,
returning the bit of paper which Mr. Sage carefully folded and placed in
his notebook. “I will arrange everything for you. You must be beside
yourself with joy, sir. It’s great, isn’t it? Where is Jane?”
Mr. Sage looked a trifle dazed. “Why—er—oh, yes, she is upstairs
putting a few of my things into a suitcase. I—”
Oliver laughed. “For the love of—Why, Uncle Herbert, you’ve got five or
six days to spare. The _Baltic_ won’t reach New York for a week anyhow.”
“A week?” in dismay. “Of course! I must be losing my mind. Of course! I
seem to remember Jane saying something of the kind a little while ago.
Yes, yes! But I do wish you would run along and send the telegram. Do
you happen to know of a nice quiet hotel there? Perhaps you wouldn’t
mind telegraphing for accommodations for Jane and me. And will you see
about reserving something on the train for us? I have done so little
traveling of late years, I—”
“Say, you ought to come out in the back yard and put the gloves on with
me, Uncle Herbert,” cried Oliver, with sparkling eyes. “I’ll bet you’re
twenty years younger than you were yesterday, and I’ve an idea you could
plaster it all over me.”
“I—I believe I could,” said Mr. Sage, squaring his thin shoulders and
drawing a deep breath. “I—I feel like a—a fighting-cock!”