A SHOCK FOR MR. CANBY
The morning following their arrival at The Lolabama, The Happy Family,
looking several shades less happy, began coming from their tents shortly
after daylight. By five o'clock they were all up and dressed, since,
being accustomed to darkened rooms, they found themselves unable to
sleep owing to the glare coming through the white canvas.
Out of consideration for his guests, whom he remembered as late risers,
Wallie had set the breakfast hour at eight-thirty. This seemed an
eternity to The Happy Family who, already famished, consulted their
watches with increasing frequency while they watched the door of the
bunk-house like cats at a mouse-hole for the cook to make his
appearance.
After a restless night due to strange beds and surroundings, still
fatigued with their long journey, their muscles stiff from the
"churning" in the stagecoach, they were not better natured for being
ferociously hungry.
After wandering around to look listlessly at the ponies, and at the
salt-water plunge that was to rejuvenate them, they sat down on the edge
of the platforms in front of their tents to endure somehow the three
hours which must pass before breakfast.
The dawn was sweet-scented, the song of the meadow-lark celestial, and
the colours of the coming day reflected on the snow-covered peaks a
sight to be remembered, but the guests had no eyes or ears or nose for
any of the charms of the early morning. The rising of the sun was
nothing as compared to the rising of the cook who would appease their
savage hunger.
Conversation was reduced to monosyllables as, miserable and apathetic,
they sat thinking of the food they had sent back to Mr. Cone's kitchen
with caustic comments, of the various dishes for which the chef of The
Colonial was celebrated.
Mr. Stott thought that his watch must be slow until it was found that
every other watch agreed with his exactly. He declared that when the
cook did appear he meant to urge him to hurry breakfast.
The cook came out, finally, at seven-thirty, and, after a surprised
glance at the row on the platforms, strode into the kitchen where he
rattled the range as if it were his purpose to wreck it.
When the smoke rose from the chimney Mr. Stott went to the door to carry
out his intention of asking the cook to speed up breakfast.
A large sign greeted him:
DUDES KEEP OUT
The cook was a gaunt, long-legged person with a saturnine countenance.
He wore a seersucker coat with a nickel badge pinned on the lapel of
it.
As an opening wedge Mr. Stott smiled engagingly and pointed to it:
"For exceptional gallantry, I presume--a war medal?"
The hero stopped long enough to offer it for Mr. Stott's closer
inspection.
It read:
UNITED ORDER OF PASTRY COOKS OF THE WORLD
Taken somewhat aback, Mr. Stott said feebly:
"Very nice, indeed--er----"
"Mr. Hicks, at your service!" the cook supplemented, bowing formally.
"Hicks," Mr. Stott added.
"Just take a second longer and say 'Mister.'"
The cook eyed him in such a fashion as he administered the reprimand for
his familiarity that Mr. Stott backed off without mentioning his
starving condition.
"What did he say?" they asked, eagerly, as he sat down on his platform,
somewhat crestfallen.
"He seems a temperamental person," Mr. Stott replied, evasively. "But we
shall have breakfast in due season."
It was suspected that Mr. Stott had failed in his mission, and they were
sure of it as the hands dragged around to eight-thirty.
At that hour precisely Mr. Hicks came out and hammered on a triangle as
vigorously as if it were necessary. In spite of their efforts to appear
unconcerned when it jangled, the haste of the guests was nothing less
than indecent as they hurried to the dining room and scrambled for seats
at the table.
The promise of food raised their spirits a trifle and Mr. Appel was able
to say humorously as, with his table knife, he scalped his agate-ware
plate loose from the oil-cloth:
"I suppose we shall soon learn the customs of the country. In a month we
should all be fairly well ac'climated."
"Acclim'ated," Mr. Stott corrected.
"Ac'climated," Mr. Appel maintained, obstinately. "At least with your
kind permission I shall continue to so pronounce it."
"I beg your pardon," Mr. Stott apologized with elaborate sarcasm, "but
when I am wrong I like to be told of it." Which was not the strict truth
for the reason that no one ever was able to convince him that he ever
was mistaken. As a result of the discussion everyone was afraid to use
the word for fear of offending one or the other.
The silence that followed while breakfast was being placed upon the
table was broken by Miss Eyester, who said timidly:
"In the night I thought I heard something sniffing, and it frightened
me."
Not to be outdone in sensational experiences, Mrs. Stott averred
positively:
"There was some _wild animal_ running over our tent. I could hear its
sharp claws sticking into the canvas. A coyote, I fancy."
"A ground-squirrel, more likely," remarked Mr. Appel.
Mr. Stott smiled at him:
"Squee-rrel, if you will allow me to again correct you."
"I guess I can't help myself," replied Mr. Appel, drily.
Mr. Stott shrugged a shoulder and his tolerant look said plainly that,
after all, one should not expect too much of a man who had begun life as
a "breaker-boy."
"The squee-rrel or coyote or whatever it was," Mrs. Stott continued,
"went pitter-patter, pitter-patter--so!" She illustrated with her
finger-tips on the oil-cloth.
"Prob'ly a chipmunk," said Pinkey, prosaically.
"Are they dangerous, Mr. Fripp?" inquired Miss Gaskett.
"Not unless cornered or wounded," he replied, gravely.
This was a joke, obviously, so everybody laughed, which stimulated
Pinkey to further effort. When Mr. Hicks poured his cup so full that the
coffee ran over he remarked facetiously:
"It won't stack, cookie."
Coffee-pot in hand, Mr. Hicks drew himself up majestically and his eyes
withered Pinkey.
"I beg to be excused from such familiarity, and if you wish our pleasant
relations to continue you will not repeat it."
"I bet I won't josh _him_ again," Pinkey said, ruefully, when Mr. Hicks
returned to the kitchen in the manner of offended royalty.
"Cooks are sometimes very peculiar," observed Mr. Stott, buttering his
pancakes lavishly. "I remember that my mother--my mother, by the way,
Mr. Penrose, was a Sproat----"
"Shoat?" Old Mr. Penrose, who complained of a pounding in his ears, was
not hearing so well in the high altitude.
Mr. Appel and Pinkey tittered, which nettled Mr. Stott and he shouted:
"Sproat! An old Philadelphia family."
"Oh, yes," Mr. Penrose recollected. "I recall Amanda Sproat--she married
a stevedore. Your sister?"
Mr. Stott chose to ignore the inquiry, and said coldly:
"My father was in public life." He might have added that his father was
a policeman, and therefore his statement was no exaggeration.
Everybody felt that it served Mr. Penrose right for telling about the
stevedore when he was seized with a violent fit of coughing immediately
afterward. Wiping his streaming eyes, he looked from Wallie to Pinkey
and declared resentfully:
"This is the result of your reckless driving. The cork came out of my
cough syrup in the suitcase. The only way I can get relief from the
irritation is to apply my tongue to the puddle. I shall have to lick my
valise until I can have the prescription refilled in Prouty."
The culprits mumbled that they "were sorry," to which Mr. Penrose
replied disagreeably that that did not keep him from "coughing his head
off!"
Looking sympathetically at Pinkey, Miss Eyester, for the purpose of
diverting the irascible old gentleman's attention from the subject,
asked when she might take her first riding lesson.
Pinkey said promptly: "This mornin'--they's nothin' to hinder."
"That's awfully good of you, Mr. Fripp," she said, gratefully.
Pinkey, who always jumped when any one called him "Mister," replied
bluntly:
"Tain't--I wantta."
"We'll all go!" Mrs. Stott cried, excitedly.
"Shore." There was less enthusiasm in the answer.
"We were so fortunate as to be able to purchase our equipment for riding
broncos before coming out here," explained Mr. Budlong. "There is an
excellent store on the Boardwalk and we found another in Omaha."
"We have divided skirts and everything! Just wait till you see us!"
cried Mrs. Budlong. "And you'll take our pictures, won't you, Mr.
Penrose?"
"I don't mind wasting a couple of films," he consented.
Between the pancakes and the prospective riding lesson the atmosphere
cleared and everyone's spirits rose so that the slightly strained
relations were again normal by the time they got up from the table.
They were as eager as children as they opened their trunks for their
costumes, and even Aunt Lizzie Philbrick, who had once ridden a burro in
Old Mexico, declared her intention of trying it.
While the "dudes" dressed, Pinkey and Wallie went down to the corral to
saddle for them.
"We better let her ride the pinto," said Pinkey, casually.
"'Her?'" Wallie looked at his partner fixedly. "Which 'her'?"
"That lady that's so thin she could hide behind a match and have room
left to peek around the corner. She seems sickly, and the pinto is
easy-gaited," Pinkey explained, elaborately.
"All right," Wallie nodded, "and we'll put Aunt Lizzie on the white one
and give Mrs. Budlong----"
"Kindly assign me a spirited mount," interrupted Mr. Stott, who, as to
costume, was a compromise between an English groom and a fox-hunter.
Wallie looked dubious.
"Oh, I understand horses," declared Mr. Stott, "I used to ride like an
Indian."
"The buckskin?" Wallie asked doubtfully of Pinkey.
Pinkey hesitated.
"You need not be afraid that he will injure me. I can handle him."
Wallie, who never had heard of Mr. Stott's horsemanship, consented
reluctantly.
"I prefer to saddle and bridle myself, also," said Mr. Stott, when the
buckskin was pointed out to him.
Wallie's misgivings returned to him and Pinkey rolled his eyes
eloquently when they saw "the man who understood horses" trying to
bridle with the chin-strap and noted that he had saddled without a
blanket.
Mr. Stott laughed inconsequently when the mistake was pointed out to him
and declared that it was an oversight merely.
"Now, if you will get me something to stand on I am ready to mount."
Once more Pinkey and Wallie exchanged significant glances as the man
"who used to ride like an Indian" climbed into the saddle like someone
getting into an upper berth in a Pullman.
Mr. Stott was sitting with the fine, easy grace of a clothespin when the
rest of the party came down the path ready for their riding lesson.
Neither Pinkey nor Wallie was easily startled, but when they saw their
guests the most their astonishment permitted was an inarticulate gurgle.
Dismay also was among their emotions as they thought of conducting the
party through Prouty and the Yellowstone. Wallie had his share of moral
courage, but when they first met his vision he doubted if he was strong
enough for the ordeal.
Mrs. Budlong, whose phlegmatic exterior concealed a highly romantic
nature and an active imagination, was dressed to resemble a cow-girl of
the movies as nearly as her height and width permitted. Her Stetson,
knotted kerchief, fringed gauntlets, quirt, spurs to delight a Mexican,
and swagger--which had the effect of a barge rocking at anchor--so
fascinated Pinkey that he could not keep his eyes from her.
Old Mr. Penrose in a buckskin shirt ornate with dyed porcupine quills,
and a forty-five Colt slung in a holster, looked like the next to the
last of the Great Scouts, while Mr. Budlong, in a beaded vest that would
have turned bullets, was happy though uncomfortable.
Mr. Budlong was dressed like a stage bandit, except that he wore
moccasins in spite of Pinkey's warning that he would find it misery to
ride in them unless he was accustomed to wearing them.
Simultaneous with Miss Gaskett's appearance in plaid bloomers a
saddle-horse lay back and broke his bridle-reins, for which Pinkey had
not the heart to punish him in the circumstances.
Aunt Lizzie wore long, voluminous, divided skirts and a little white hat
like a pate-tin, while by contrast Mrs. Harry Stott looked very smart
and ultra in a tailored coat and riding breeches.
This was the party that started up Skull Creek under Pinkey's guidance,
and the amazing aggregation that greeted the choleric eye of Mr. Canby
on one of the solitary rides which were his greatest diversion. He had
just returned from the East and had not yet learned of the use to which
Wallie had put his check. But now he recalled Wallie's parting speech to
Pinkey when he had started to get the paper cashed, and this fantastic
company was the result!
As Canby drew in his horse, he stared in stony-eyed unfriendliness
while they waved at him gaily and Mr. Stott called out that they were
going to be neighbourly and visit him soon.
The feeling of helpless wrath in which he now looked after the party was
a sensation that he had experienced only a few times in his life. Pinkey
had warned him that at the first openly hostile act he would "blab" the
story of the Skull Creek episode far and wide. He had hit Canby in his
most vulnerable spot, for ridicule was something which he found it
impossible to endure, and he could well appreciate the glee with which
his many enemies would listen to the tale, taking good care that it
never died.
By all the rules of the game as he had played it often, and always with
success, Wallie should long since have "faded"--scared, starved out.
Yet, somehow, in some unique and extraordinary way that only a "dude"
would think of, he had managed to come out on top.
But the real basis for Canby's grievance, and one which he would not
admit even to himself, was that however Wallie was criticized, Helene
Spenceley never failed to find something to say in his defence.
There was not much that Canby could do in the present circumstances to
put difficulties in Wallie's way, but the next day he found it
convenient to turn a trainload of long-horn Texas cattle loose on the
adjacent range, and posted warnings to the effect that they were
dangerous to pedestrians, and persons going among them on foot did so at
their own risk.