Ralston walked as far as the Twenty-eighth Street subway station, where
he caught a local for Forty-second Street. Thence he hurried to
Delmonico's. It was now seven o'clock, and already the restaurant was
nearly full.
"Philip, have you seen Mr. Scott?" he asked of the doorman.
"In the palm room, Mr. Ralston," answered the servant at once. "The head
waiter told me to say that your dinner was ready."
Ralston checked his coat, and soon caught sight of his newly engaged
private secretary at a small table in a corner. They shook hands, and
Scott pointed to a pile of letters and papers beside him.
"This stuff came while you were out. I thought I'd better bring it along
to save time."
"Good!" commented Ralston. "What is most of it?"
"Eight letters of congratulation, which I listed. A long letter from
some old lady friend of yours when you were in Exeter----"
"I know--Mrs. Gorringe."
"Then that power of attorney from Bee, Single & Quick, that you
expected. Oh, I don't know--a lot of circulars: 'Red Cross,' 'Special
Relief,' 'Society for Assisting Wives and Children of Enlisted Men.'"
"Send 'em twenty-five apiece."
Mr. Scott took out his notebook and made an entry.
"How about that power of attorney?"
"It seemed all right. I don't know. We never had anything just like it
in the law school."
Ralston burst out laughing.
"How old are you, Jim?"
"Twenty-five."
"Well, just wait ten years, and if you ever see a legal paper that looks
like anything but a page out of Doomsday call my attention to it, will
you?"
"Well, it's got a seal, anyway."
"How about those antelope heads from Livingston that were being
mounted?"
"Wilcox telephoned they'd be shipped to-morrow."
By this time the soup had arrived, and both fell to with appetites born
of a hard day's labor. The waiters were apparently serving "extras" with
every course, and more than half the men at the tables were in uniform.
Flags hung everywhere, and at each plate a _papier-maché_ cannon held
the customary bonbons. In the extreme eastern corner the Hungarians were
playing "Dixie," "Old Kentucky Home," "Maryland," "Star-Spangled
Banner," "Suwanee River," "A Hot Time," and other patriotic airs, one
after the other, the conclusion of each being marked by loud applause
from all sides.
"Isn't it great!" exclaimed Scott. "You know my governor thinks my going
down with you is out of sight. He'd hate to have me enlist. Of course,
I'd rather really, but in the long run I fancy there'll be more doin'
right in Washington."
"You'll be busy, all right," said Ralston. "Has Thompson packed all the
trunks?"
"Sure; ages ago."
"And did you buy the tickets?"
Scott produced the tickets with obvious pride.
"Well, you're satisfactory so far. By the way, what are you going to do
to-night?"
"Mrs. Patterson's theater party--'The Martial Maid.'"
"And you skipped the dinner?"
"To dine with my chief. Orders, you know. Duty before pleasure."
"Good boy!" said Ralston. "How did you fix it?"
"Why, I spoke to Ellen and she managed it for me. Of course, if it was
for you anything would go with her. Isn't she a stunner?"
"You spoke to Ellen, did you? Well, you have a confidence born of your
newly acquired elevation. I saw her at Miss Evarts's this afternoon. She
didn't mention you, however."
"Do you know a fellow named Steadman?" continued Scott. "Good-looking
chap, but a 'weak sister,' I think."
"Yes, I know him. Why?"
"Oh, nothing. He's around with her a good deal."
"Well?"
"Well, I hate to see a girl like that throw herself away, that's all,"
burst out the secretary with energy.
"Why, Steadman used to be a decent fellow enough," said Ralston,
thinking rapidly. "Anything the matter with him that you know of?"
"He bats an awful lot."
"Something new?"
"Yes; within six months. Uncle died and left him a lot of loose change.
He's been blowing it in."
"How? Of course, it's on the quiet?"
"Oh, yes! He's at church every Sunday."
"Yesterday?"
"No. I meant metaphorically."
By eight o'clock dinner had been entirely served, and Scott had received
all his instructions.
"Guess I'll step over to the Pattersons' now for a short cigar," he
remarked, "and pick up the crowd. See you to-morrow at eight-thirty."
"Good night. Have a good time," called Ralston after him, as the
youthful figure passed out. He was very fond of Scott. He wondered if
what the boy had said about Steadman was true. A fellow could go down a
lot in six months, or in less. Steadman had always had a weakness.
Ralston had never liked him, though forced to be in his company on many
occasions.
"I'll smoke at the room," he thought, and paid his bill. "I'm going off
to Washington, William, so I'd better settle," he remarked to the old
waiter.
From Delmonico's he crossed the avenue, walked north for two blocks, and
turned into his rooms, which were situated in a small, new bachelor
apartment house. He found everything in confusion and Thompson hard at
work packing books.
He shed his frock coat for a smoking jacket, and took his seat at a low
desk with a drop light, having brought his letters with him from the
restaurant. First he rapidly answered his notes of congratulation,
following a set form, then hastily read the power of attorney from his
lawyers, and signed it, after which he O. K.'d a pile of bills, gave
some instructions to Thompson about his library, wrote a long letter to
his mother, who was spending the winter in Italy, then took up the
letter from the "old lady in Exeter," and threw himself back into a
chair before the fire.
It was eighteen years since he had seen her, the woman who had kept the
boarding house in which he had lived at school--who had mended his
clothes, lent him small sums of money, brought him his meals when sick,
served him for a temporary mother, lied for him when necessary, and been
rewarded with the real affection of her young lodger. This was the first
letter she had ever written him. In the left-hand corner of the white,
blue-lined paper was an embossed reproduction of the State House in
Boston, and the shaking penmanship filled every inch of space and ran
back to the front page again.
EXETER, March 5, 19--.