A MAGNATE TO THE RESCUE
EMILY DAVIS had expected to go to work the day that the dinners began,
but when she tried her strength she found it much less than she had
thought. She sat at the cashier’s desk until two o’clock, and then
Betty, noticing how pale and miserable she looked, insisted on her
giving up and going home to rest.
“I’ll manage some way,” she assured her new assistant hopefully. “And
you’ll most certainly catch your never-get-over if you sit here with
all the draughts blowing on you, when you’re not well enough to be up.”
“A stove doesn’t give a very even heat, does it?” said Emily wanly.
“I’m warm all but one side.”
“A stove,” said Betty with feeling, “is a relic of the barbaric ages.
So are kerosene lamps. Running this place without the stove and the
lamps would be simply blissful. I should feel like a robber when I
took my salary.”
“You shall have a chance to feel that way just as soon as I begin to
earn mine,” Emily assured her. “I hate to leave you to-day, but----”
“Run along,” Betty broke in. “I shall need you a lot more after Nora is
gone.”
But her resolute hopefulness turned to blank dismay when the newly
engaged waitress, who had seemed so promising, sent word that she had
sprained her ankle. Nora’s regular assistant was a stout, stupid girl,
who could be trusted only with simple orders and unexacting customers.
Betty went over the names of the girls who had engaged stalls, found no
unexacting ones among them, promptly arrayed herself in one of the caps
that Nora scorned and an apron, sent the stupid waitress after a stupid
friend who could probably make change correctly, and planned a division
of work with Nora, who was frankly horrified at her mistress’s new rôle.
“But the first night must be a success, Nora,” Betty explained. “I’ll
stay in the kitchen getting orders ready for Mary Jones as long as I
dare. But when she begins to look wild-eyed and distracted, I shall
put her in the kitchen, and come out myself. It’s the only way to have
things go off well.”
By half-past six the tea-shop was crowded. Betty, peeping in through
the kitchen door, was relieved to find very few of her particular
friends among the diners. She hoped that nobody would exclaim over
her new departure or stop her to demand explanations. She had a
presentiment that if any one did she was going to feel, as Nora
declared she ought, “most awful queer.”
Eugenia’s arrival occurred at an unlucky moment, when Nora was too busy
to attend to her, and Betty decided that her time had come. After the
first plunge, past Eugenia’s blank, unrecognizing stare and through a
little flurry of amused nods and puzzled glances from other girls who
knew her, it wasn’t so bad. Except Eugenia’s party, nobody who gave her
orders neglected to hail her and condole over Emily’s grippe and the
new waitress’s ankle. Betty soon got into the spirit of the occasion,
thoroughly enjoying everything but the many trips to Eugenia’s
stall, with its hedge of pompous dignity. She was on her way out to
the kitchen with a big trayful of dishes, when the door opened and in
strode an elderly gentleman, with a militant air and keen gray eyes
that twinkled merrily under his bushy eyebrows, as he closed the door
with a terrific bang and looked eagerly about him from one absorbed
group of diners to another. But a man is a novelty in Harding, and this
particular man would have attracted attention anywhere; in an instant
he was the centre of interest; in another he had discovered Betty and
she had discovered him.
“Well, Miss B. A.!” he called out gleefully, quite oblivious of the
staring crowd of girls. “Put down that tray and come and shake hands.
Didn’t expect to see me to-night, did you? Well, I was almost up here,
and I’d promised myself that some time this winter I’d investigate
Harding College, so I seized the opportunity. I telegraphed the little
tomboy that John’s so fond of to meet me and help show me around.
Haven’t seen her, have you?”
“No, I haven’t, Mr. Morton,” Betty told him--for of course the noisy
intruder was none other than Jasper Jones Morton, the Elusive Magnate
of the European trip. “And I’m afraid she won’t come, because I had a
letter from her yesterday saying that she was in bed with a cold.”
Jasper J. Morton’s smile clouded. “Too bad, too bad,” he muttered.
“She’ll be disappointed. She likes going off on trips with me.
We’ll have to send her a consolation present to-morrow. You’ll know
what she’d like. Now, Miss B. A., I want some dinner at this famous
tea-shop, and I want you to sit down and eat with me and tell me all
about the business.” Mr. Morton threw back his head and laughed, as if
he thought Betty Wales in business at the Tally-ho Tea-Shop the very
best joke in the world.
Betty led him to a little table in a corner, that had opportunely
been left vacant by two girls who were hurrying off to a senior play
rehearsal. “But I can’t sit with you,” she explained, “because I’m
waiting on people to-night. The regular waitress has sprained her
ankle.”
“There’s one.” Mr. Morton waved his hand imperiously at Nora. “She can
manage somehow. Sit down.”
But Betty was firm. She explained that the dinners were a new
departure, that she was particularly anxious for every one to go away
satisfied with the food and the service, and finally she promised to
wait on Mr. Morton herself, and to come and talk to him later, when the
crowd had thinned. Then she flew to the kitchen after Eugenia’s salads.
Mr. Morton watched her pick up the heavy tray. “Bless me, but she’s a
worker!” he muttered audibly, to the vast amusement of two freshmen at
the next table. “I supposed from what the little tomboy said that she
was playing at business, but it seems she’s in earnest. How I do like
to see people in earnest!”
When Eugenia Ford had finished her dinner, she intercepted Betty in a
flying trip to the kitchen after a forgotten cup of coffee. “Isn’t that
Mr. Jasper J. Morton of New York?” she asked. “I thought it must be,
and so did Mr. and Mrs. Valentine, Susanna’s mother and father. They
know him very well, but of course he won’t expect to see them here.
Would you mind taking us over to speak to him? Why didn’t you tell me
you knew the Mortons?”
“Why should I have told you that?” demanded Betty calmly. “The subject
never came up. John Morton is engaged to one of my best friends.”
“Really!” Eugenia’s face was a study. “Well, come over and meet the
Valentines.”
“Not till I’ve brought Dickie Drake’s coffee. Just a second, Dickie.”
And she was off. It was a master-stroke on Betty’s part, to cap the
information about the Mortons by showing her intimacy with Dickie
Drake, who was a most exclusive senior. It was one thing to speak of
her as Dickie--all the college did that--and quite another to address
her directly by her nickname. But Betty was not trying to impress
Eugenia--which was the reason why she succeeded so perfectly then and a
moment later, when, having been duly introduced to the Valentines, she
convoyed them and Eugenia across to Mr. Morton’s table.
“Friends of yours, Miss B. A.?” he inquired in a dreadfully loud
whisper. “Friends of mine! Nonsense--merest acquaintances. Well, tell
me their names again, and then bring ’em along. How do you do, Mrs.
Valentine? Mr. Valentine, how are you? Your daughter--this one, no,
that one--and Miss Force. Very glad to see so many New Yorkers, I’m
sure. Miss B. A., don’t forget that I’m waiting for you. I hate to be
kept waiting, but you’re one of the people that are worth waiting for.
Do I know your father, Miss Force? It’s quite possible. I know so many
people in one way and another that it takes several secretaries to keep
me posted on the subject. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go back to my
dinner, which is too good to let cool.”
Whereupon the “very wealthy” Valentines and “Miss Force” departed,
and Jasper J. Morton chuckled to himself as he wondered if they had
noticed that what he had left on his plate to cool was tomato salad.
He had reached his coffee before Betty came to keep him company. She
wasn’t hungry, she explained; she had snatched her dinner bit by bit
between-times; but Mr. Morton insisted upon her beginning all over
again and “eating like a Christian,” telling her meanwhile the latest
news of John’s senior honors at Harvard, of which he was absurdly
proud, and of the house he was building as a surprise for Babe, next to
his own stately summer home.
“Now tell me all about yourself,” he commanded, when Betty finally
declared that she couldn’t and wouldn’t eat anything more. “Are you
well, and are you happy? It’s no use asking if your business is a
success, after watching this evening’s crowd eat. But I’m afraid you’re
overworked. Next time you’re shy a waitress just telephone me and I’ll
have one sent up from New York in short order. But if she doesn’t get
here soon enough, why, let ’em sit a while. Or let ’em run out and help
themselves. The help-yourself style of restaurant is getting to be very
popular. Now how about your latest ‘benevolent adventures’?”
Betty told him about the factory’s club-house, and promised to take him
to see it in the morning, after they had been to chapel and made a tour
of the campus. Mr. Morton watched her closely while she talked.
“You’re not happy, Miss B. A.,” he said at last. “You’ve got something
on your mind. You don’t laugh right out the way you did last summer,
and you were thinking about something else while I told you about the
little tomboy’s new house. Out with it now; what’s the trouble?”
“Nothing,” Betty assured him.
“You say that very much as if you didn’t mean it, my dear young lady,”
Mr. Morton told her.
“Well, nothing that I want to tell you then,” Betty amended, with her
flashing smile. “You’ll want to do something about it and I don’t
think you can--anyway I don’t want you to try, and you’ll only get
awfully----”
“Mad,” put in Mr. Morton grimly. “Well, then you’ll have a chance to
smooth me down the way you did last summer. You can do that, but you
can’t get out of telling me what’s worrying you.”
So Betty told the whole story, beginning with Mr. Harrison’s unexpected
visit and ending with Madeline’s hurried one. She explained why she had
begun so suddenly with the dinners, and how unfortunate it was that
there would be no time to sell the ploshkins, of whose charms she gave
a lively description. She accounted for her disappointment purely on
the ground of not wishing to have the Tally-ho Tea-Shop cease at the
height of its success, saying nothing about the little sister, her
responsibility for Emily, or the low ebb of her own finances. But just
as she had predicted, Mr. Morton flew into a rage at once. Why hadn’t
she written him to come and interview that rascal Harrison? Why had
she gone into business in the first place without his advice and help?
Where was the scamp’s office? If he did not meet his engagement to go
to chapel with her the next morning she would know what had detained
him.
“But, Mr. Morton, Mr. Harrison isn’t in town just now,” Betty
expostulated, not thinking it necessary to add that Mr. Harrison’s
absence was the chief reason why she had not absolutely refused to
confide in Mr. Morton.
“That may be,” Mr. Morton sputtered, “but he is somewhere on this side
of the globe, isn’t he? He hasn’t dropped off the earth, and presumably
he can be reached by wire or wireless, can’t he? You go to bed and to
sleep, Miss B. A. I’ll settle this scamp Harrison.”
“But Mr. Morton----” Betty began, only to be majestically waved into
silence.
“I admire your independence. I always admire independence. But in this
case it’s absurd. I won’t call this man Harrison a scamp to his face,
Miss B. A.; I give you my word I won’t. But I’ll bring him to terms, or
my name’s not J. J. Morton. You see, Miss B. A., in a case like this my
name is a pretty valuable asset. It will scare him a good deal when he
finds who’s back of this tea-shop that he thought was run by a parcel
of little girls.”
Next morning the chapel bell was tolling and the last stragglers
were hurrying up the hill, hoping to slip in before the doors were
closed, when a carriage drove up to the Tally-ho and Jasper J. Morton,
descending from it, beckoned wildly to Betty to come out.
[Illustration: THEY INTERCEPTED THE PRESIDENT]
“I don’t want to miss seeing this famous chapel service,” he called, as
Betty, who had been watching for him by a window, appeared. “I’ve
done your business, Miss B. A. I routed out the agent, got this
Harrison’s address, and”--he chuckled reminiscently,--“in three minutes
by long distance the whole thing was arranged. The rent and the agent
go on just as usual. The agent will bring you a contract, made out for
as long as you like. There will be no rent this summer while the place
is closed for needed repairs. Is this the right way to chapel? Come on
then.”
The portly form of Jasper Jones Morton barely squeezed through the
chapel door as it slid shut, and he and Betty dropped breathlessly into
the back row of seats.
“I like to accomplish what I set out to,” he murmured under cover of
the opening chant. “And I’d like to meet the president of the college
some time when it’s convenient.”
So they intercepted the president when chapel was over, and the
president insisted upon personally conducting so distinguished a
financier as Jasper Jones Morton over his domain. Jasper Jones Morton
beamed upon the president and upon every inch of the domain, and he
made ostentatious notes of the president’s unostentatious hints
regarding the needs of the college.
He went over these later, as he devoured an early luncheon by the
fire in the Tally-ho. “Now, shall I build them a library annex, or a
greenhouse, or a dormitory?” he demanded. “I couldn’t give him any idea
what to expect until I’d seen you.”
“I wish you could build a dormitory for girls who can’t pay the regular
price for board,” said Betty impulsively. “They have to live so far off
and in such horrid little places----”
“Exactly.” Mr. Morton cut her short. “Don’t I know? Have I forgotten
the holes I’ve boarded in? Now of course I’ll put up that kind of
dormitory, with an endowment to cover the expense of running it. You’ve
got nerve, Miss B. A. That gift will cost at least twice what the
others would.”
Betty only laughed, for she was very sure that Mr. Morton did not care
what his gift to Harding cost. Besides she was too happy about the
Tally-ho’s rent to worry about anything else.
“Now if you have that decided, please tell me how you managed Mr.
Harrison,” she begged. “I may have to manage him some time myself, when
you’re too far away----”
“No you won’t,” Mr. Morton interrupted with decision. “I have just one
rule, Miss B. A., for the treatment of scoundrels: Eliminate them. I
applied the rule this morning in the simplest way that occurred to me,
by buying this property.”
“So you’re our landlord now!” gasped Betty.
“I am,” Mr. Morton assured her. “Just as soon as the college closes
I want this tea-room to close too, so that I can install decent
up-to-date systems of lighting and heating and make any other
improvements that you or the artistic young lady named--thank you,
yes, Ayres, can suggest. Remember I hate half-way measures. I want my
building to be the finest quarters for a tea-shop in the whole U.S.
Then I guess, when you are tired of running the place--or I might say
anxious to try your hand at running some lucky young man--why, you
won’t have any trouble in finding a successor.”
“Oh, Mr. Morton,” sighed Betty reproachfully, “you shouldn’t have done
it. Really you shouldn’t.”
“You certainly didn’t encourage me at all,” Mr. Morton told her, “so
you needn’t feel in the least responsible. By the way, send me a sample
of that plasher-thing that you’re having made in plaster. If those fool
images sell here, I don’t see why they shouldn’t make good in New York.
And tell the president what we’ve decided about the dormitory. Tell him
to write me if he favors the idea, and I’ll send a check. Good-bye.”
“You must wait till I’ve thanked----” began Betty.
“Miss B. A.,” broke in Mr. Morton sternly, “don’t you know me well
enough yet to know that the thing I detest most in this world is to be
thanked?”