MR. JOSEPH SIKES INTERVENES
Now, while Mr. Joseph Sikes was one of the first citizens of Rumley, a
good Republican, and a man whose opinions were considered if not always
respected, he had no social position, using the term in its present
accepted sense. In simple, he was not by way of knowing the “best”
people. There had been a time when Joe Sikes was a figure in the social
life of Rumley, but that was in the days when “society” functioned, so
to speak, in the corner grocery, or on the porch of the toll-gate, or at
K. of P. Hall. Conditions in Rumley had changed, but old Joe hadn’t. He
was still a “feed store” man, fairly prosperous, blatantly independent,
and on speaking terms with “fashion” only in connection with business or
politics.
The day was past in Rumley when Joe Sikes could stroll up to anybody’s
house, night or day, walk in without knocking, and feel at home with his
friends. There were eight or ten thousand people in Rumley now and there
was a distinct though somewhat heterogeneous element known to some as
the “smart set” and to others as the “stuck-ups.” They were the people
whose names and activities filled the society columns of the Rumley
_Daily Despatch_.
To them, old Joe Sikes was a “character.” He knew Banker Lansing, and
Banker Koontzwiler, and the President of the Excelsior Woodenware Works,
and others of their ilk, but he did not know their wives or their
daughters. Mr. Link, on the other hand, had a very wide acquaintance
with the “newer rich,” as he learnedly called them in placating Mr.
Sikes on occasion. He had buried a lot of them, for one thing.
Mr. Sikes was troubled. Not once but half a score of times in the week
following his first glimpse of “yaller-headed” Mrs. Flame, he had seen
her with Oliver October. She wasn’t, of course, sitting in Oliver’s lap
on any of these occasions, but—well, it is enough to say that Mr. Sikes
was sorely troubled. He saw Oliver going straight to his doom.
With Jane’s departure for New York he lost all hope.
He had lectured Oliver severely, and, to his grief and astonishment, was
laughed at for his pains. So he went to Serepta Grimes.
He rang the Baxter doorbell—and instantly wondered why he had done so.
It seemed like a confession of weakness on his part. He sat down on the
veranda and waited. It was late in the afternoon of a hot July day, well
along toward the end of the month. He sniffed the sultry air, gazed
frowningly at the western sky where clouds were gathering in the black
pregnancy of storm, and chewed hard on the macerated stub of an
unlighted cigar.
Mrs. Grimes came to the door.
“Oh, it’s you, is it? I thought maybe it was Marmaduke Smith back with
another telegram.”
“Another what?” demanded Mr. Sikes, with interest.
“He’s brought two up on his bicycle since four o’clock, and he said
maybe there’d be more. Two telegrams for Oliver.”
“Why didn’t he take ’em to the store, the little fool? Oliver may have
to ketch the six o’clock train. What’s in ’em?”
“How should I know? I don’t open his letters or telegrams.”
“Well, you’d ought to. Ten chances to one they’re from Ollie, asking for
help or money or—Where is Oliver, if he ain’t at the store?”
“He’s out automobile riding with Mr. Lansing’s daughter.”
“Oh; he is, is he?” snapped Mr. Sikes, getting up. “I might have knowed
it. Darn his eyes, he’s getting worse and worse every day. If I’ve
warned that boy once about light women, I’ve done it a hundred times.
He’s got to—”
“She’s letting it come in dark again,” said Mrs. Grimes calmly.
“Letting it what?”
“Come in dark. Her hair, I mean. She wouldn’t be any more of a blonde
than you are, Joe Sikes, if she’d quit bleaching her hair, or hennering
it, or whatever it is they do. Like Saul Higbee’s daughter Kate—you
remember her, don’t you? Turned blonde over night, and said God had
performed a miracle.”
“You mean to say this here Lansing woman ain’t a real blonde?” exclaimed
Mr. Sikes, sitting down again.
“You heard what I said, didn’t you?”
“I don’t know whether to believe you or my own eyes.”
“Looks as if we’d get the storm before dark, doesn’t it?” said Mrs.
Grimes, sweeping the cloud banks with a casual eye.
Mr. Sikes appeared to be thinking. After a long pause he said: “I guess
maybe you’re insinuatin’ that I better be moving along towards home if I
don’t want to get caught in it.”
“You can sit here as long as you like, Joe,” said she. “And you can stay
to dinner, too, if you feel like it,” she added, her conscience smiting
her suddenly.
“Have you swept the porch to-day, Serepty?” he inquired, after another
pause.
“Certainly. Why?”
“Because I never seem to come up here and sit down on it but what either
you or Lizzie Meggs rush out and begin sweeping all around me. No matter
what time of day I come, I always have to get out of the way of one of
you women sweepin’.”
“Well, you won’t have to to-day,” said she good-naturedly. “So set
still.”
“I guess I’ll wait for Oliver to come home,” said he guiltily. “I want
to see what’s in them telegrams. You—you’re sure about that woman
having dark hair?”
“Absolutely.”
“Well, that’s a comfort. I—Hello! Here comes Oliver now—but, by
thunder, he’s got that yaller-haired woman with him,” he concluded in
dismay. “No, thank you, Serepty—I can’t stay for supper. I—I—” He got
up quickly, pulled his straw hat down low over his eyes, and started
hurriedly down the walk.
“Hello, Uncle Joe,” called out Oliver, swinging the car into the drive.
“Wait a minute and I’ll give you a lift home. I’m going back just as
soon as I’ve changed my collar and—”
“There’s a lot of telegrams here from your father,” said Joseph gruffly.
He halted half way down the walk and stared intently at Mrs. Flame.
Oliver brought the car to a stop in front of the porch. “I’ll be out in
a couple of minutes, Sylvia,” he said as he slid out from behind the
wheel. “Hey, Uncle Joe! Come here, please. I want to introduce you to
the lady you’ve been raising such a rumpus about. She swears she won’t
scratch your eyes out or pull your hair. You needn’t look so scared.
She’s perfectly harmless. Take my word for it. I’ve had experience with
fair women, as you well know, and I don’t find ’em any more devilish
than dark women.”
Mr. Sikes was scandalized. He turned purple in the face—not with anger
but with mortification. He told Mr. Link afterwards that he felt like a
fool, and Mr. Link brought a lot of wrath down upon himself by remarking
that it must have been wonderful for him to feel natural for once in his
life.
He approached the dazzling, radiant Mrs. Flame reluctantly, stammering
something about “horse play” and “poppycock.”
“Do you think there is going to be a storm, Mr. Sikes?” she inquired, as
Oliver, grinning maliciously, dashed up the steps and followed Mrs.
Grimes into the house.
Mr. Sikes did not answer at once. He was squinting narrowly at Mrs.
Flame’s back hair—or more particularly at a spot just below the left
ear.
“By jiminy,” he muttered softly, “she’s right.” Then recovering himself,
he said: “Eh?”
“Mr. Baxter is a great tease, isn’t he?” she substituted.
“He’s a darned nuisance,” said Mr. Sikes sharply. “Makes me tired.”
Suddenly it occurred to him that here was a chance not to be overlooked,
so he added very firmly: “I pity the woman that gets him for a husband.”
“You do? Why, I should say that the woman who gets him is about the
luckiest person in the world.”
He looked at her piercingly. “How long did you say you’ve knowed him?”
he inquired.
“I didn’t say—but there’s no harm in telling you, I suppose.” She began
counting on her fingers. “Nine days, Mr. Sikes.”
“It takes him just about that long,” was his cryptic rejoinder.
She laughed merrily. “Do they fall for him as easily as all that?”
“The married ones do,” said he darkly and daringly.
“Oh, that lets me out,” she said. “You see, I’m not married, Mr. Sikes.”
“Excuse me, I thought he said Missus,” floundered Mr. Sikes, a trifle
dashed.
“He did. I am Mrs. Flame.”
“Er—ahem! Oh, I see. Widow.”
“In a detached sort of way.”
This was beyond Mr. Sikes. “In the war, I suppose.”
“Do I look like a woman who lost a husband in the war, Mr. Sikes?”
“You don’t look like you’d lost one anywhere,” said he, beginning to
feel a trifle nettled. “You certainly don’t look like a widow to me.”
“What do I look like to you?” she inquired amiably.
“You look as if it wouldn’t distress you very much if I was to ask how
long he’s been dead,” was his unexpected reply.
She flushed. “A very good answer to a very stupid question,” said she.
“He isn’t dead. He is very much alive. He didn’t go to the war. I am one
of those horrible, unspeakable things known as a grass widow, Mr.
Sikes.”
“As I was saying,” he began after he had taken as much as thirty seconds
to recover from the shock of this disclosure, “it wouldn’t surprise me
if we got the storm inside of ten or fifteen minutes. I guess I’ll be
moving along. Glad to have met you, Mrs.—”
“Do wait,” she cried. “Oliver won’t be a minute. We’ll take you wherever
you wish to go, Mr. Sikes.”
“No, I won’t wait,” said he firmly. “But before I go, I want to—er—as
I was saying, it ain’t any of my business—you understand that, don’t
you?—er—I was just thinking it’s only fair to tell you that Oliver
is—er—what you might call engaged, Mrs. Flame. Generally speaking, I
mean.”
“I see,” said she brightly. “And you want to warn me not to make a fool
of myself, is that it? It’s awfully kind of you.”
Mr. Sikes was a poor dissembler. “Well, I was thinking more about Oliver
making a fool of himself,” said he bluntly.
“But why, Mr. Sikes, do you keep all this a secret from him?” she cried,
biting her lip to keep from laughing. “I think you ought to tell him he
is engaged and not keep the poor boy in suspense. He hasn’t the remotest
inkling of it.”
“Don’t you fool yourself,” said he stoutly.
“And who is the fortunate young lady?”
“We ain’t quite ready to make it public yet,” said Mr. Sikes, casting a
sharp look toward the house and cocking his ear for sounds of Oliver’s
footsteps on the stairs. “Which reminds me,” he went on hurriedly,
lowering his voice, “I guess you’d better not mention it to him.”
“I sha’n’t, Mr. Sikes, if it will make you feel any more comfortable.
But at least you can tell me this. Does the young lady know she is
engaged?”
He had got in deeper than he intended.
“Did I say she was young?” he demanded craftily, trying to recall just
how far he had already committed himself. “No, siree! You bet I didn’t.
I’m too smart for that.”
“But does she know she is engaged?” persisted this disconcerting young
woman.
“Not what you would call exactly,” he confessed, lamely.
“I see. You are keeping it a secret from both of them.”
He heard Oliver in the hall, speaking to Mrs. Grimes. It was no time to
choose words, so he blurted out:
“Yes, and you’ll do me an everlastin’ favor, ma’am, if you’ll keep it
secret from him for a week or two. He’s awfully touchy. It might spoil
everything if he got wind of it.”
“Is she a blonde or a brunette?”
This was his chance. “It’s purty hard to tell these days,” he said,
fastening his gaze on her hair in a most disconcerting manner.
She laughed outright, joyously, frankly. Oliver, coming out of the house
at this juncture, paused in amazement at the top of the steps.
“See here, Uncle Joe, you quit your flirting,” he cried. “Next thing you
know you’ll have a breach of promise suit on your hands.”
“Don’t get fresh!” exclaimed Mr. Sikes in some exasperation. Then, to
cover his confusion: “What’s the news from your pa, Oliver? What’s he
say in them telegrams?”
“They’re not from father, Uncle Joe,” said the young man, softening.
“Jump in behind there. I’ll run you uptown before the storm.”
“I’m not going uptown,” said Mr. Sikes obstinately. “I’m stayin’ here
for supper with Serepta. I just remembered it,” he went on, with a
guilty, apologetic look at Mrs. Flame. “Oh, before I forget it, Oliver,
is there anything serious in them telegrams?”
“Yes, sir! It certainly begins to look serious. I had six at the store
this morning, and a dozen telephone calls besides. That’s one reason why
I took the afternoon off. Nearly every man on the County Central
Committee has telephoned or telegraphed me to-day. The pressure is
getting pretty strong, Uncle Joe, and I’m beginning to weaken.”
“Pressure? Weaken? What the devil are you talking about now?” demanded
Mr. Sikes, placing one foot on the running-board and grasping the
door-handle.
“They want me to make the race for State Senator against Uncle Horace,”
said Oliver. “Hop in! I’m going to start.” Then, as the old man
scrambled hurriedly into the car, he added: “And I’ve about reached the
conclusion to go out and skin Uncle Horace alive.”
“My God!” gasped Mr. Sikes, leaning forward and gripping the back of the
front seat with both hands. “You—you don’t mean to tell me you’re going
to run for office, Oliver October Baxter!”
“Hang onto your hat, Uncle Joe! I’m going to let her out a little,” sang
out Oliver, and “let her out” he did as the car swept out of the
driveway into the street.
Mr. Sikes was standing up in the tonneau, grasping the forward seat with
one hand, and his hat with the other. He leaned over and shouted in
Oliver’s ear.
“You can’t do it! You mustn’t do it! It’s against my wishes, and your
pa’s, and—why, how many times have I told you what the gypsy said
about—Say! Slow down a little, confound you! Have you told Serepty
Grimes about this fool notion of yours?”
“I have. And she’s tickled to death. She says to go ahead and skin him
alive. That’s the kind of a hairpin she is!”
Mr. Sikes clung rigidly to the back of the seat for a couple of hundred
yards, speechless with a combination of concern and exasperation. Then
he sank down into the side chair and bellowed:
“I’m through! I’m done! There’s no use trying to save you—not a damn
bit of use. Go ahead and run! I’m through! Stick your neck right into it
if you want to. I’ve done my best—I’ve done all a man could do. I no
sooner see you safely out of a scrape with a light woman than you start
hell-bent for the halls of state. You—”
“Don’t you worry, Uncle Joe,” called out Oliver cheerily. “Uncle Horace
will probably snow me under a mile deep.”
Mr. Sikes was silent for a few moments, contemplating this calamity.
Suddenly he banged the back of the seat with his clenched fist.
“Not on your life!” he roared. “We’ll skin him alive. You’ll carry every
darned precinct in the county. He won’t—”
“Hang onto your hat, Uncle Joe!”
“My what? Good Lord! I forgot—but never mind! Don’t go back after it!
It’s an old one anyhow. Yes, sir; we’ll peel the hide off of old Gooch
next November—every inch of it. Let me out at the Hubbard House,
Oliver. Silas Link drops in there about this time every evening to cool
off under the electric fans. Does he know about this?”
“I don’t think he does,” said Oliver, drawing up to the curb in front of
the hotel.
“Good!” exclaimed Mr. Sikes, with satisfaction. He clambered out of the
car. “Good day, ma’am. I hope you don’t get wet.” He eyed her hair
narrowly, even apprehensively. “Hurry along, Oliver. You mustn’t keep
her out in the rain.”
“Good-by, Mr. Sikes. Thank you for warning me,” said Mrs. Flame,
favoring him with a smile so enchanting that instead of blurting out the
latest news to Mr. Link when he encountered him in the lobby of the
hotel a few moments later, he gloomily announced that a fellow as young
as Oliver didn’t have a ghost of a chance.