SKINNER FISHES WITH A DIPLOMATIC HOOK
The first step in the scheme which Skinner had evolved for the
reclamation of Willard Jackson, of St. Paul, Minnesota, was to be taken
Sunday morning, after services, at the First Presbyterian Church of
Meadeville, New Jersey.
Skinner had not told Honey he was going to take her on his trip West.
He would do that after church, if a certain important detail of his
plan did not miscarry. Although he paid respectful attention to the
sermon, Skinner's thoughts were at work on something not religious, and
he was relieved when the doxology was finished and the blessing asked.
Unlike most of the others present, Skinner was in no hurry to leave.
Instead, he loitered in the aisle until Mrs. Stephen Colby overtook him
on her way down from one of the front pews.
"Why, Mr. Skinner, this _is_ a surprise," exclaimed the social arbiter.
Then slyly, "There's some hope for you yet."
"I thought I'd come in and make my peace before embarking on a railroad
journey," Skinner observed.
"Going away? Not for long, I hope."
"St. Paul. I'm not carrying a message from the Ephesians--just a
business trip."
"St. Paul's very interesting."
"I'm glad to hear it."
"You've never been there?"
"No."
"Goodness--I know it well."
"What bothers me is, I'm afraid Mrs. Skinner 'll find it dull. I'm
taking her along. You see, I 'll have lots to do, but she does n't
know anybody out there."
The social arbiter pondered a moment. "But she _should_ know somebody.
Would you mind if I gave her a letter to Mrs. J. Matthews Wilkinson?
Very old friend of mine and very dear. You'll find her charming.
Something of a bore on family. Her great-grandfather was a kind of
land baron out that way."
"It's mighty good of you to do that for Mrs. Skinner."
"Bless you, I'm doing it for you, too. You have n't forgotten that
you're a devilish good dancer and you don't chatter all the time?"
Then, after a pause, "I'm wishing a good thing on the Wilkinsons,
too,"--confidentially,--"for I don't mind telling you I've found Mrs.
Skinner perfectly delightful. She's a positive joy to me."
"You're all right, Mrs. Colby."
"That's the talk. Yes, I'm coming along." She waved her hand to
Stephen Colby. "When do you go?"
"To-morrow morning."
"I'll send the letter over this afternoon--and if you don't mind, I 'll
wire the Wilkinsons that you're coming on."
Skinner impulsively caught her hand. "Mrs. Colby, you're the best
fellow I ever met!"
When the letter arrived at the Skinner's house that afternoon, Honey
knitted her brows.
"I don't understand it."
"You ought to. It's for you."
"Dearie," said Honey, rising, her eyes brimming, "you mean to say that
I'm going to St. Paul with you?"
"Don't have to say it. Is n't that letter enough?"
"Dearie, you're the most wonderful man I ever saw. Think of it!--a
letter from Mrs. Colby! I'll bet those Wilkinsons are swells!"
"They breathe the Colby stratum of the atmosphere. It's a special
stratum, designed and created for that select class."
"It's quite intoxicating."
"Special brands usually are."
"I thought those Western cities did n't have classes."
"My dear, blood is n't a matter of geography. There's not a village in
the United States that does n't have its classes. The more loudly they
brag of their democracy, the greater the distance from the top to the
bottom."
As Skinner said this, he jotted down in his little book:--
_Dress-Suit Account_
_Debit_ _Credit_
One "open sesame" to the
smartest set west of the
Alleghanies!
and Honey clapped her hands.
And as he put Mrs. Colby's letter in his inside pocket, Skinner
muttered to himself, "A climber, but does n't climb. She'll climb for
this all right!"
The Skinners reached St. Paul Tuesday night and registered at The
Hotel. When he had deposited Honey in the suite which had been
reserved by wire for them, Skinner proceeded to execute the next step
in his scheme for the reclamation of Willard Jackson. He returned to
the desk.
"I wish," he said to the chief clerk, "that you 'd see to it that a
paragraph regarding my arrival is put in the morning papers, just a
little more than mere mention among hotel arrivals"--he took pen and
paper and wrote--"something like this: 'William Manning Skinner, of
McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc., New York, reached town last evening and is
stopping at The Hotel.' There's a lot of people here I want to see,
but I might overlook 'em in the rush of business. If they know I'm
here, they'll come to see me."
"Very good, Mr. Skinner," said the clerk. "I'll see to it."
Skinner paused a moment. "By Jove, I've almost forgotten the principal
thing." He added a few words to the copy. "Put that in, too, please.
Can you read it? See: 'Mrs. Skinner, daughter of the late Archibald
Rutherford, of Hastings-on-the-Hudson, accompanies her husband.'
That's just to please her."
[Illustration: "Mrs. Skinner, daughter of the late Archibald
Rutherford, of Hastings-on-the-Hudson, accompanies her husband"]
"'Rutherford'--'Hastings-on-the-Hudson'--swagger name," commented the
clerk.
Skinner smiled at the clerk's comment. If it impressed this dapper,
matter-of-fact, know-everybody man-of-affairs that way, how much more
would it appeal to Mrs. Curmudgeon W. Jackson's social nose.
Veritably, it augured well for his scheme.
But he only said, "It reads a devilish sight better than plain Skinner,
does n't it?"
"Well," said the clerk, trying to be consoling and diplomatic and
failing in both, "you must n't always judge a man by his name."
After breakfast next morning Skinner and Honey remained in their rooms,
waiting for the message that was to come from the Wilkinsons, for
Skinner had reckoned that any friend of the Colbys would receive prompt
attention.
"She'll call you up, Honey, and ask us to dine to-night. There, there,
don't ask any questions. I've figured it all out. But we're engaged
until Saturday."
"Engaged every night? Why, Dearie, this is only Wednesday. You had
n't told me anything about it."
"Quite right," said Skinner, "I had not."
"What are we going to do?"
"I have no plans. I suppose we'll sit in our rooms or go to the
theater."
"Well," said Honey, "it beats me."
On reading the morning paper, Mrs. J. Matthews Wilkinson said to her
husband, "They're here--the Skinners--Jennie Colby's friends, you know.
We must have them to dinner."
"When?" said Wilkinson, looking up from his paper.
"I dare say they'll be here but a short time. Better make it to-night."
"You're the doctor," said Wilkinson, resuming his paper.
"We'll send out a hurry call for the Armitages and the Bairds and the
Wendells," said Mrs. Wilkinson, mentally running over her list of the
most select of St. Paul's inner circle. "We'll show these people that
we're not barbarians out here."
"Can you corral all those folks for to-night? Is n't it rather sudden,
my dear?"
"I've dined with them on shorter notice than that, just to accommodate
them. I 'll call up the Skinners right away."
Honey answered the 'phone. Of course they'd be delighted to dine at
the Wilkinsons, but every night was filled up to Saturday. A pause.
Hold Saturday for them? She should say they would.
There was another pause. Then Honey clapped her hand over the receiver
and turned to Skinner.
"Can we take a spin with them this afternoon, Dearie?"
"You bet. We've nothing else to do."
"You fraud," said Honey, when she had hung up the receiver, "you said
you had engagements."
"I tried to convey to you," observed Skinner, somewhat loftily, "that
we couldn't dine at the Wilkinsons' before Saturday. That covers it, I
think."
According to Skinner's plans, the dinner at the Wilkinsons' was to be
the big, climactic drive at the fortress of Willard Jackson's
stubbornness.
As Skinner had reckoned, Mrs. Curmudgeon W. Jackson nosed out the
paragraph in the morning paper, first thing.
"Who is this Mr. Skinner, Willard? Do you know him?"
"What Skinner?"
"William Manning Skinner."
"Never heard of him."
"He's of McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc.,--your old friends."
Jackson pricked up his ears.
"What's he doing here? Does it say?"
"No."
"I know," said Jackson shrewdly. "He's out here after me." He
chuckled. "They've been sending emissaries to get me back ever since I
quit 'em. Even the partners came out, one at a time. That shows what
they think of my trade."
"Skinner's got his wife with him."
"I don't blame him. It's a devilish mean business going on the road
without some one to look after you." Jackson paused. "But he can't
disguise his fine Italian hand that way. I know those fellows."
"She's some swell," said Mrs. Jackson. "Daughter of the late Archibald
Rutherford, of Hastings-on-the-Hudson."
"That don't mean anything. The way they write it makes it _look_
aristocratic. Rutherford!--he might have been a butcher! And
Hastings-on-the-Hudson! Well, they have butchers there as well as
Astors!"
"Mebbe you're right."
"I'll bet you a new dress Skinner'll be after me to-day," said Jackson,
folding his newspaper and preparing to leave for his office. "Trust
your Uncle Dudley here--I know."
The very first words that greeted Jackson that night when he reached
home were, "I get the dress, don't I?"
"How do you know?"
"Skinner didn't get after you to-day. Look!"
Mrs. Jackson held up the evening paper and read aloud. "'A belated
honeymoon--that's what we're here for more than anything else,' said
Mr. William Manning Skinner, of McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc., of New
York, to a reporter this afternoon. The Skinners had just returned
from a spin over beyond Minneapolis with the J. Matthews Wilkinsons--"
"The devil you say!" said Jackson, reaching over and taking the paper.
"Aw!" He chucked the paper aside. "That don't establish their social
status any more than living in Hastings-on-the-Hudson or being a
Rutherford. It don't amount to anything. It's just business. Fellows
like Wilkinson, when some outsider is n't quite good enough socially
and they want to swell his head without committing themselves, take him
in their car or to the club. In that way they save their business
faces without sacrificing their social faces. I know," he growled.
"But how did he get in with the Wilkinsons? They have n't any
business."
"Wilkinson is in all sorts of things that nobody knows of but himself."
He glanced over the sub-caption. "Skinner sees no difference socially
between the St. Paul and the New York people. Puts St. Paul first," he
observed, "thanks for that." He read further. "'But the Western
people are more frankly hospitable'!"
"Moonshine! Moonshine!" he commented. "Hospitality ain't a matter of
location. You'll find generous people and devilish mean people, no
matter where you go. That's soft soap. It reads well--but--I know."
"It don't look as if he'd have much time for you, Willard."
"He ain't through yet," said Jackson, lighting a stogie. "I'll bet you
another dress that to-morrow--"
"Taken!"
Mrs. Jackson turned again to the paper.
"That girl knows how to _dress_, all right!"
But it was n't Honey's dress that stirred Mrs. Jackson's soul to the
depths. These Skinners were hand in glove with the inaccessible
Wilkinsons, and--the devil take it--Jackson was no longer a customer of
McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc.
Skinner read the evening paper with great satisfaction. The inky seed
disseminated through the press was, he felt, bound to take strong root
in the fertile consciousness of Mrs. Curmudgeon W. Jackson, and
therefrom was sure to react effectively upon the decidedly active
consciousness of Jackson himself.
With this end in view, as per plan of campaign for the reclamation of
Willard Jackson, Skinner had had himself interviewed on a subject dear
and flattering to the Middle West, especially flattering to St. Paul.
He had written his "first impressions of St. Paul" on the way out from
New York, and had permitted the same to be extracted by the
reporters--with great cunning--from his modest and reluctant self.
Honey was present--designedly present--while the young newspaper men
were quizzing Skinner, dressed in her very latest, which was carefully
noted and described in the interview, for decorative purposes.
"We just looked in _en passant_," Skinner observed to the reporters,
using his French to the limit. "It's a kind of belated honeymoon.
We've seen Mr. Hill's residence and we ran over and looked at those
wonderful flour mills in Minneapolis, your neighbor"-- He paused.
A frozen atmosphere seemed suddenly to enshroud the reporters. Their
pencils ceased to record.
"Oh, yes, let's get back to St. Paul."
Instantly the temperature rose about a hundred degrees, and the
reporters' pencils began to move again.
When the newspaper men were gone, Skinner jotted down:--
_Dress-Suit Account_
_Debit_ _Credit_
Useful hint! When you're
in St. Paul, talk about
_St. Paul_!
And when he read his interview in the evening paper, Skinner made this
entry:--
_Dress-Suit Account_
_Debit_ _Credit_
A certain remarkable
authority in discussing social
matters which I never thought
I possessed. In fact, which I
never did possess until I got
the dress suit.
The Skinners devoted the days between Wednesday and Saturday to loafing
or sight-seeing, principally the former. They drove over to
Minneapolis again and took in the wonderful flour mills, for anything
that pertained to machinery fascinated Skinner. Then they went out to
the Lake and had a trout dinner and all the rest of it. But after a
time, this unaccountably useless routine got on Honey's nerves.
"Dearie," she protested, "this is our honeymoon, to be sure, but don't
you think you ought to get after business?"
"Don't worry. Business will get after _us_ pretty soon."
"But time is flying."
"Time is doing just what I want it to do. It takes time for plans to
develop. It takes time for seed to grow. I started business getting
after us Sunday morning at the First Presbyterian Church in Meadeville.
I prepared some of the seed on the way out here. I began sowing the
evening we arrived. I fanned the flame with a big puff,"--he held up
the paper with the interview in it. "Jingo, that's funny. I did n't
mean it literally."
"Your metaphors are fearfully mixed, Dearie."
"Does n't matter. They're graphic."
"But they're not clear to me."
"They are to me, which is enough," said Skinner, with a suggestion of
finality.
Honey pouted reproachfully at the snub, and Skinner's heart instantly
smote him.
"Don't worry, Honey. It's all right." He paused. "Now, I'm going to
make a prophecy." He pointed impressively at her with his forefinger.
"And you mark my words! Things will begin to happen right after the
Wilkinson dinner."
"That's Sunday morning."
"Things have happened on Sunday," observed Skinner quietly.
"When do you expect to start for home?"
"I 'm not sure, but I 'm counting strongly on Tuesday morning."
While the Skinners were talking, something pertaining to the same
business was developing in another part of the city.
"Do I get another dress?" Mrs. Jackson asked as the famous curmudgeon
entered the dining-room Thursday evening.
"You do," he growled. "I'll be hanged if I understand it."
"It's too bad," Mrs. Jackson began.
The curmudgeon held up his finger. "Stop right where you are. I know
what you're going to say." He growled out the accustomed formula:
"'You'd give me dresses all day long and diamonds and a magnificent
house, but you don't give me what is dearest in the world. I want to
go with the people I 'm fit to go with!' In the future, just to save
time, cross your fingers and I'll know you mean formula number two."
"But Mr. Skinner," Mrs. Jackson persisted.
The curmudgeon cut her short. "What's _Skinner_ got to do with it?"
"Got to do with it? Why, he's a regular missing link!"
"Missing link?" Jackson looked at her in surprise. "Have you seen
him?"
"I don't mean that--I mean connecting link."
"Some difference," Jackson grunted.
"If you hadn't gone and broken with McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc."
"That's enough. It's too late now. I don't want to hear anything more
about it."
Mrs. Jackson said nothing. She knew that silence at such a time was
her most effective weapon. Jackson waited for her to speak, but as she
did not speak he immediately felt sorry that he'd been short with her.
She was the only person in the world he really cared for. But he must
show no outward sign of weakness, so he repeated, "It's too late now, I
tell you!"
But, being a resourceful man, Jackson never considered anything too
late. He would never take defeat for granted until he should be in his
coffin. As a matter of fact, he had often regretted that he had broken
with McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc. If it had n't been for that fresh
salesman, Briggs, he never would have. And after he _had_ broken with
them, his stupid obstinacy had stood in the way of resuming friendly
relations, for McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc., had always delivered the
goods.