Long before the two had reached the top floor of the building in which
the dinner was to be given, they had caught the hum of the merrymakers,
the sound bringing a smile of satisfaction to Peter's face, but it was
when he entered the richly colored room itself, hazy with cigarette
smoke, and began to look into the faces of the guests grouped about him
and down the long table illumined by myriads of wax candles that all his
doubts and misgivings faded into thin air. Never since his school days,
he told me afterwards, had he seen so many boisterously happy young
fellows grouped together. And not only young fellows, with rosy
cheeks and bright eyes, but older men with thoughtful faces, who had
relinquished for a day the charge of some one of the important buildings
designed in the distinguished architect's office, and had spent the
night on the train that they might do honor to their Chief.
But it was when Morris, with his arm fast locked in his, began
introducing him right and left as the “Guest of Honor of the Evening,”
the two shaking hands first with one and then another, Morris breaking
out into joyous salvos of welcome over some arrival from a distant city,
or greeting with marked kindness and courtesy one of the younger
men from his own office, that the old fellow's enthusiasm became
uncontrollable.
“Isn't it glorious, Holker!” he cried joyously, with uplifted hands.
“Oh, I'm so glad I came! I wouldn't have missed this for anything in the
world. Did you ever see anything like it? This is classic, my boy--it
has the tang and the spice of the ancients.”
Morris's greeting to me was none the less hearty, although he had left
me but half an hour before.
“Late, as I expected, Major,” he cried with out-stretched hand, “and
serves you right for not sitting in Peter's lap in the cab. Somebody
ought to sit on him once in a while. He's twenty years younger
already. Here, take this seat alongside of me where you can keep him
in order--they were at table when I entered. Waiter, bring back that
bottle--Just a light claret, Major--all we allow ourselves.”
As the evening wore away the charm of the room grew upon me. Vistas hazy
with tobacco smoke opened up; the ceiling lost in the fog gave one the
impression of out-of-doors--like a roof-garden at night; a delusion made
all the more real by the happy uproar. And then the touches here and
there by men whose life had been the study of color and effects; the
appointments of the table, the massing of flowers relieving the white
cloth; the placing of shaded candles, so that only a rosy glow filtered
through the room, softening the light on the happy faces--each scalp
crowned with chaplets of laurel tied with red ribbons: an enchantment
of color, form and light where but an hour before only the practical and
the commonplace had held sway.
No vestige of the business side of the offices remained. Peter pointed
out to me a big plaster model of the State House, which filled one end
of the room, and two great figures, original plaster casts, heroic in
size, that Harding, the sculptor, had modelled for either side of the
entrance of the building; but everything that smacked of T-square or
scale was hidden from sight. In their place, lining the walls, stood a
row of standards of red and orange silk, stretched on rods and supported
by poles; the same patterns of banners which were carried before
Imperial Caesars when they took an airing; and now emblazoned with the
titles of the several structures conceived in the brain of Holker Morris
and executed by his staff: the Imperial Library in Tokio; the great
Corn Exchange covering a city block; the superb Art Museum crowning
the highest hill in the Park; the beautiful chateau of the millionaire
surrounded by thousands of acres of virgin forest; the spacious
warehouses on the water front, and many others.
With the passing of the flagons an electric current of good fellowship
flashed around the circle. Stories that would have been received with
but a bare smile at the club were here greeted with shouts of laughter.
Bon-mots, skits, puns and squibs mouldy with age or threadbare with use,
were told with a new gusto and welcomed with delight.
Suddenly, and without any apparent reason, these burst forth a roar
like that of a great orchestra with every instrument played at its
loudest--rounds of applause from kettle-drums, trombones and big horns;
screams of laughter from piccolos, clarionettes and flutes, buzzings of
subdued talk by groups of bass viols and the lesser strings, the whole
broken by the ringing notes of a song that soared for an instant clear
of the din, only to be overtaken and drowned in the mighty shout of
approval. This was followed by a stampede from the table; the banners
were caught up with a mighty shout and carried around the room; Morris,
boy for the moment, springing to his feet and joining in the uproar.
The only guest who kept his chair, except Peter and myself, was a young
fellow two seats away, whose eyes, brilliant with excitement, followed
the merrymaking, but who seemed too much abashed, or too ill at ease,
to join in the fun. I had noticed how quiet he was and wondered at the
cause. Peter had also been watching the boy and had said to me that he
had a good face and was evidently from out of town.
“Why don't you get up?” Peter called to him at last. “Up with you, my
lad. This is one of the times when every one of you young fellows should
be on your feet.” He would have grabbed a banner himself had any one
given him the slightest encouragement.
“I would, sir, but I'm out of it,” said the young man with a deferential
bow, moving to the empty seat next to Peter. He too had been glancing at
Peter from time to time.
“Aren't you with Mr. Morris?”
“No, I wish I were. I came with my friend, Garry Minott, that young
fellow carrying the banner with 'Corn Exchange' marked on it.”
“And may I ask, then, what you do?” continued Peter.
The young fellow looked into the older man's kindly eyes--something in
their expression implied a wish to draw him the closer--and said quite
simply: “I don't do anything that is of any use, sir. Garry says that I
might as well work in a faro bank.”
Peter leaned forward. For the moment the hubbub was forgotten as
he scrutinized the young man, who seemed scarcely twenty-one, his
well-knit, well-dressed body, his soft brown hair curled about his
scalp, cleanly modelled ears, steady brown eyes, white teeth--especially
the mobile lips which seemed quivering from some suppressed emotion--all
telling of a boy delicately nurtured.
“And do you really work in a faro bank?” Peter's knowledge of human
nature had failed him for once.
“Oh, no sir, that is only one of Garry's jokes. I'm clerk in a stock
broker's office on Wall Street. Arthur Breen & Company. My uncle is head
of the firm.”
“Oh, that's it, is it?” answered Peter in a relieved tone.
“And now will you tell me what your business is, sir?” asked the young
man. “You seem so different from the others.”
“Me! Oh, I take care of the money your gamblers win,” replied Peter, at
which they both laughed, a spark of sympathy being kindled between them.
Then, seeing the puzzled expression on the boy's face, he added with
a smile: “I'm Receiving Teller in a bank, one of the oldest in Wall
Street.”
A look of relief passed over the young fellow's face.
“I'm very glad, sir,” he said, with a smile. “Do you know, sir, you look
something like my own father--what I can remember of him--that is, he
was--” The lad checked himself, fearing he might be discourteous. “That
is, he had lost his hair, sir, and he wore his cravats like you, too. I
have his portrait in my room.”
Peter leaned still closer to the speaker. This time he laid his hand on
his arm. The tumult around him made conversation almost impossible. “And
now tell me your name?”
“My name is Breen, sir. John Breen. I live with my uncle.”
The roar of the dinner now became so fast and furious that further
confidences were impossible. The banners had been replaced and every one
was reseated, talking or laughing. On one side raged a discussion as to
how far the decoration of a plain surface should go--“Roughing it,” some
of them called it. At the end of the table two men were wrangling as to
whether the upper or the lower half of a tall structure should have
its vertical lines broken; and, if so, by what. Further down high-keyed
voices were crying out against the abomination of the flat roof on the
more costly buildings; wondering whether some of their clients would
wake up to the necessity of breaking the sky-line with something less
ugly--even if it did cost a little more. Still a third group were in
shouts of laughter over a story told by one of the staff who had just
returned from an inspection trip west.
Young Breen looked down the length of the table, watched for a moment
a couple of draughtsmen who stood bowing and drinking to each other
in mock ceremony out of the quaint glasses filled from the borrowed
flagons, then glanced toward his friend Minott, just then the centre of
a cyclone that was stirring the group midway the table.
“Come over here, Garry,” he called, half rising to his feet to attract
his friend's attention.
Minott waved his hand in answer, waited until the point of the story had
been reached, and made his way toward Peter's end of the table.
“Garry,” he whispered, “I want to introduce you to Mr. Grayson--the very
dearest old gentleman you ever met in your whole life. Sits right next
to me.”
“What, that old fellow that looks like a billiard ball in a high
collar?” muttered Minott with a twinkle in his eye. “We've been
wondering where Mr. Morris dug him up.”
“Hush,” said Breen--“he'll hear you.”
“All right, but hurry up. I must say he doesn't look near so bad when
you get close to him.”
“Mr. Grayson, I want you to know my friend Garry Minott.”
Peter rose to his feet. “I DO know him,” he said, holding out his hand
cordially. “I've been knowing him all the evening. He's made most of
the fun at his end of the table. You seem to have flaunted your Corn
Exchange banner on the smallest provocation, Mr. Minott,” and Peter's
fingers gripped those of the young man.
“That's because I've been in charge of the inside work. Great dinner,
isn't it, Mr. Grayson. But it's Britton who has made the dinner. He's
more fun than a Harlem goat with a hoopskirt. See him--that's Brit with
a red head and blue neck-tie. He's been all winter in Wisconsin looking
after some iron work and has come back jam full of stories.” The dignity
of Peter's personality had evidently not impressed the young man,
judging from the careless tone with which he addressed him. “And how are
you getting on, Jack--glad you came, ar'n't you?” As he spoke he laid his
hand affectionately on the boy's shoulder. “Didn't I tell you it would
be a corker? Out of sight, isn't it? Everything is out of sight around
our office.” This last remark was directed to Peter in the same casual
way.
“I should say that every stopper was certainly out,” answered Peter
in graver tones. He detested slang and would never understand it. Then
again the bearing and air of Jack's friend jarred on him. “You know, of
course, the old couplet--'When the wine flows the--'”
“No, I don't know it,” interrupted Minott with an impatient glance. “I'm
not much on poetry--but you can bet your bottom dollar it's flowing all
right.” Then seeing the shade of disappointment on Breen's face at the
flippant way in which he had returned Peter's courtesies, but without
understanding the cause, he added, tightening his arm around his
friend's neck, “Brace up, Jack, old man, and let yourself go. That's
what I'm always telling Jack, Mr. Grayson. He's got to cut loose from
a lot of old-fashioned notions that he brought from home if he wants to
get anywhere around here. I had to.”
“What do you want him to give up, Mr. Minott?” Peter had put on his
glasses now, and was inspecting Garry at closer range.
“Oh, I don't know--just get into the swing of things and let her go.”
“That is no trouble for you to do,” rejoined Jack, looking into his
friend's face. “You're doing something that's worth while.”
“Well, aren't you doing something that's worth while? Why you'll be
a millionaire if you keep on. First thing you know the lightning will
strike you just as it did your uncle.”
Morris leaned forward at the moment and called Minott by name. Instantly
the young man's manner changed to one of respectful attention as he
stepped to his Chief's side.
“Yes, Mr. Morris.”
“You tell the men up your way to get ready to come to order, or we won't
get through in time--it's getting late.”
“All right, sir, I'll take care of 'em. Just as soon as you begin to
speak you won't hear a sound.”
As Minott moved from Morris's seat another and louder shout arose from
the other end of the table:
“Garry, Garry, hurry up!” came the cry. It was evident the young man was
very popular.
Peter dropped his glasses from his nose, and turning toward Morris said
in a low voice:
“That's a very breezy young man, Holker, the one who has just left us.
Got something in him, has he, besides noise?”
“Yes, considerable. Wants toning down once in a while, but there's no
question of his ability or of his loyalty. He never shirks a duty and
never forgets a kindness. Queer combination when you think of it, Peter.
What he will make of himself is another matter.”
Peter drew his body back and sent his thoughts out on an investigating
tour. He was wondering what effect the influence of a young man like
Minott would have on a young man like Breen.
The waiters at this point brought in huge trays holding bowls of tobacco
and long white clay pipes, followed by even larger trays bearing coffee
in little cups. Morris waited a moment and then rapped for order.
Instantly a hush fell upon the noisy room; plates and glasses were
pushed back so as to give the men elbow room; pipes were hurriedly
lighted, and each guest turned his chair so as to face the Chief, who
was now on his feet.
As he stood erect, one hand behind his back, the other stretched toward
the table in his appeal for silence, I thought for the hundredth time
how kind his fifty years had been to him; how tightly knit his figure;
how well his clothes became him. A handsome, well-groomed man at all
times and in any costume--but never so handsome or so well groomed as
in evening dress. Everything in his make-up helped: the broad, square
shoulders, arms held close to his side; flat waist; incurving back and
narrow hips. His well-modelled, aristocratic head, too, seemed to gain
increased distinction when it rose clear from a white shirt-front which
served as a kind of marble pedestal for his sculptured head. There
was, moreover, in his every move and look, that quality of transparent
sincerity which always won him friends at sight. “If men's faces are
clocks,” Peter always said, “Holker's is fitted with a glass dial. You
can not only see what time it is, but you can see the wheels that move
his heart.”
He was about to speak now, his eyes roaming the room waiting for the
last man to be still. No fumbling of glasses or rearranging of napkin,
but erect, with a certain fearless air that was as much a part of his
nature as was his genius. Beginning in a clear, distinct voice which
reached every ear in the room, he told them first how welcome they were.
How great an honor it was for him to have them so close to him--so close
that he could look into all their faces with one glance; not only those
who came from a distance but those of his personal staff, to whom really
the success of the year's work had been due. As for himself, he was, as
they knew, only the lead horse in the team, going ahead to show them
the way, while they did the effective pulling that brought the load to
market! Here he slipped his hand in his pocket, took from it a small box
which he laid beside his plate, and continued:
“At these festivals, as you know, and if my memory serves me this is our
third, it has always been our custom to give some slight token of our
appreciation to the man who has done most during the year to further the
work of the office. This has always been a difficult thing to decide,
because every one of you, without a single exception, has given the best
that is in you in the general result. Three years ago, you remember, it
was awarded to the man who by common consent had carried to completion,
and without a single error, the detailed drawings of the Museum which
was finished last year. I am looking at you, Mr. Downey, and again
congratulate you. Last year it was awarded to Mr. Buttrick for the
masterly way with which he put together the big arches of the Government
warehouses--a man whom it would have been my pleasure to congratulate
again to-night had it been possible for him to reach us. To-night I
think you will all agree with me that this small token, not only of my
own, but of your 'personal regard and appreciation'” (here he opened
the box and took from it a man's ring set with three jewels), “should
be given to the man who has carried out in so thorough a way the part
allotted to him in the Corn Exchange, and who is none other than Mr.
Garrison Minott, who for--”
The rest of the sentence was lost in the uproar.
“Garry! Garry! Garry Minott!” came from all parts of the room. “Bully
for Garry! You deserve it, old man! Three cheers for Garry Minott!
Hip... Hip...!”
Morris's voice now dominated the room.
“Come this way, Mr. Minott.”
The face of the young superintendent, which had been in a broad laugh
all the evening, grew white and red by turns. Out of pure astonishment
he could neither move nor speak.
“All right--stay where you are!” cried Morris laughing. “Pass it up to
him, please.”
John Breen sprang from his chair with the alertness of a man who had
been accustomed to follow his impulse. In his joy over his friend's
good fortune he forgot his embarrassment, forgot that he was a stranger;
forgot that he alone, perhaps, was the only young man in the room whose
life and training had not fitted him for the fullest enjoyment of
what was passing around him; forgot everything, in fact, but that his
comrade, his friend, his chum, had won the highest honors his Chief
could bestow.
With cheeks aflame he darted to Morris's chair.
“Let me hand it to him, sir,” he cried, all the love for his friend
in his eyes, seizing the ring and plunging toward Garry, the shouts
increasing as he neared his side and placed the prize in his hand. Only
then did Minott find his breath and his feet.
“Why, Mr. Morris!--Why, fellows!--Why, there's plenty of men in the
office who have done more than I have to--”
Then he sat down, the ring fast in his hand.
When the applause had subside--the young fellow's modesty had caused a
fresh outburst--Morris again rose in his chair and once more the room
grew still.
“Twelve o'clock, gentlemen,” he said. “Mr. Downey, you are always our
stand-by in starting the old hymn.”
The diners--host and guests alike--rose to their feet as one man. Then
to Peter's and my own intense surprise that most impressive of all
chants, the Doxology in long metre, surged out, gaining in volume and
strength as its strains were caught up by the different voices.
With the ending of the grand old hymn--it had been sung with every
mark of respect by every man in the room--John Breen walked back to his
chair, leaned toward Peter, and with an apologetic tone in his voice--he
had evidently noticed the unfavorable impression that Garry had made on
his neighbor--said:
“Don't misjudge Garry, Mr. Grayson; he's the kindest hearted fellow in
the world when you know him. He's a little rough sometimes, as you can
see, but he doesn't mean it. He thinks his way of talking and acting is
what he calls 'up-to-date.'” Then he added with a sigh: “I wish I had a
ring like that--one that I had earned. I tell you, Mr. Grayson, THAT'S
something worth while.”
Peter laid his hand on the young man's shoulder and looked him straight
in the face, the same look in his eyes that a proud father would have
given a son who had pleased him. He had heard with delight the boy's
defence of his friend and he had read the boy's mind as he sang the
words of the hymn, his face grave, his whole attitude one of devotion.
“You'd think he was in his father's pew at home,” Peter had whispered
to me with a smile. It was the latter outburst though--the one that came
with a sigh--that stirred him most.
“And you would really have liked a ring yourself, my lad?”
“Would I like it! Why, Mr. Grayson, I'd rather have had Mr. Morris give
me a thing like that and DESERVED IT, than have all the money you could
pile on this table.”
One of those sudden smiles which his friends loved so well irradiated
Peter's face.
“Keep on the way you're going, my son,” he said, seizing the boy's hand,
a slight tremble in his voice, “and you'll get a dozen of them.”
“How?” The boy's eyes were wide in wonderment.
“By being yourself. Don't let go of your ideals no matter what Minott
or anybody else says. Let him go his way and do you keep on in yours.
Don't... but I can't talk here. Come and see me. I mean it.”
Breen's eyes glistened. “When?”
“To-morrow night, at my rooms. Here's my card. And you, too, Mr.
Minott--glad to see both of you.” Garry has just joined them.
“Thanks awfully,” answered Minott. “I'm very sorry, Mr. Grayson, but I'm
booked for a supper at the Magnolia. Lot of the fellows want to whoop
up this--” and he held the finger bearing the ring within an inch of
Peter's nose. “And they want you, too, Jack.”
“No, please let me have him,” Peter urged. Minott, I could see, he did
not want; Breen he was determined to have.
“I would love to come, sir, and it's very kind of you to ask me. There's
to be a dance at my uncle's tomorrow night, though I reckon I can be
excused. Would you--would you come to see me instead? I want you to see
my father's portrait. It's not you, and yet it's like you when you turn
your head; and there are some other things. I'd like--” Here the boy
stopped.
Peter considered for a moment. Calling at the house of a man he did not
know, even to continue the acquaintance of so charming a young fellow
as his nephew, was not one of the things punctilious Mr.
Grayson--punctilious as to forms of etiquette--was accustomed to do. The
young man read his thoughts and added quickly:
“Of course I'll do just as you say, but if you only would come we will
be entirely alone and won't see anybody else in the house.”
“But couldn't you possibly come to me?” Peter urged. The fact that young
Breen had a suite of rooms so sequestered as to be beyond the reach
even of a dance, altered the situation to some extent, but he was still
undecided. “I live all alone when my sister is not with me, and I, too,
have many things I am sure would interest you. Say you'll come now--I
shall expect you, shall I not?”
The boy hesitated. “You may not know exactly what I mean,” he said
slowly. “Maybe you can't understand, for everybody about here seems to
love you, and you must have lots of friends. The fact is, I feel out of
everything. I get pretty lonely sometimes. Garry, here, never stays five
minutes when he comes to see me, so many people are after him all the
time. Please say you'll come!”
There was a note in the boy's voice that swept away all the older man's
scruples.
“Come, my son! Of course I'll come,” burst out Peter. “I'll be there at
nine o'clock.”
As Morris and the others passed between the table and the wall on
their way to the cloak-room, Minott, who had listened to the whole
conversation, waited until he thought Peter had gone ahead, and then,
with an impatient gesture, said:
“What the devil, Jack, do you want to waste your time over an old fellow
like that for?”
“Oh, Garry, don't--”
“Don't! A bald-headed old pill who ought to have--”
Then the two passed out of hearing.