Part 70 (1/2)

”This rootbeer has been flat as the deuce lately,” he said.

”They're selling us poor stuff,” said the Tennessee Shad, with the tail of a sardine disappearing within.

”I wonder if I could put life in the blame thing if I shook it up a bit,” said Stover, suiting the action to the word.

Now, the Tennessee Shad knew from experience what that result would be, but as Stover was holding the bottle he dissembled his knowledge.

”Give it a shake,” he said.

Stover complied.

”Shake her again.”

”How's that?”

”Once more. It'll be just like champagne.”

Stover gave it a final vigorous shake, pointed the nozzle toward the poster and cut the cork. There was an explosion and then the contents rose like a geyser and spread over the ceiling and the luckless ballet dancer who dared to resemble Miss McCarty.

By the next morning the poster was unrecognizable under a coating of dried reddish spots and was ignominiously removed, to the delight of Stover, whose illusions were thus preserved, as well as his secret.

Now, the month spent at the McCartys' had strengthened his honorable intentions and given them that definite purpose that is sometimes vulgarly ticketed--object matrimony.

It is not that d.i.n.k could return over the romantic days of his visit and lay his finger on any particular scene or any definite word that could be construed as binding Miss McCarty. But, on the other hand, his own actions and expressions, he thought, must have been so capable of but one interpretation that, as a man of honor, he held himself morally as well as willingly bound. Of course, she had understood his att.i.tude; she must have understood. And, likewise, there were events that made him believe that she, in her discreet way, had let him see by her actions what she could not convey by her words. For, of course, in his present position of dependence on his father, nothing could be said. He understood that. He would not have changed it. Still, there were unmistakable memories of the preference he had enjoyed. There had been, in particular, an ill-favored dude, called Ver Plank, who had always been hanging around with his tandem and his millions, who had been sacrificed a dozen times by the unmercenary angel to his, John H. Stover's, profit. That was clear enough, and there had been many such incidents.

The only thing that disappointed d.i.n.k was the polite correctness of her letters. But then something, he said to himself, must be allowed for maiden modesty. His own letters were the product of afternoons and evenings. The herculean difficulty that he experienced in covering four sheets of paper--even when writing a flowing hand and allowing half a page for the signature--secretly worried him. It seemed as though something was lacking in his character or in the strength of his devotion.

On the day after the final disappearance of the brazen amazon d.i.n.k pounced upon a violet envelope in the well-known handwriting and bore it to a place of secrecy. It was in answer to four of his own painful compositions.

He gave three glances before reading, three glances that estimate all such longed-for epistles. There were five pages, which brought him a thrill; it was signed ”as ever, Josephine,” which brought him a doubt; and it began ”Dear Jack,” which brought him nothing at all.

Having thus pa.s.sed from hot to cold, and back to a fluctuating temperature, he began the letter--first, to read what was written, and second, to read what might be concealed between the lines:

DEAR JACK: Since your last letter I've been in a perfect whirl of gayety--dances, coaching parties and what-not. Really, you would say that I was nothing but a frivolous b.u.t.terfly of fas.h.i.+on. Next week I am going to the Ver Planks' with quite a party and we are to coach through the Berks.h.i.+res. The Judsons are to be along and that pretty Miss Dow, of whom I was so jealous when you were here, do you remember? I met a Mr. c.o.c.krell, who, it seems, was at Lawrenceville.

He told me you were going to be a phenomenal football player, captain of the team next year, and all sorts of wonderful things. He _admires_ you _tremendously_. I was so pleased! Don't forget to write soon.

As ever, JOSEPHINE.

This letter, as indeed all her letters did, left d.i.n.k trapezing, so to speak, from one emotion to another. He had not acquired that knowledge, which indeed is never acquired, of valuing to a nicety the intents, insinuations and complexities of the feminine school of literature.

There were things that sent him soaring like a j.a.panese kite and there were things, notably the reference to Ver Plank, that tumbled him as awkwardly down.

He immediately seized upon pen and paper. It had, perhaps, been his fault. He would conduct the correspondence on a more serious tone. He would be a little--daring.

At the start he fell into the usual inky deliberation. ”Dear Josephine” was so inadequate. ”My dear Josephine” had--or did it not have--just an extra little touch of tenderness, a peculiar claim to possession. But if so, would it be too bold or too sentimental? He wrote boldly:

”My dear Josephine:”

Then he considered. Unfortunately, at that time the late lamented Pete Daly, in the halls of the likewise lamented Weber and Fields, was singing dusky love songs to a lady likewise ent.i.tled ”My Josephine.”

The connection was unthinkable. d.i.n.k tore the page into minute bits and, selecting another, sighed and returned to the old formula.