Part 14 (1/2)

I may ask a rather big thing, and ask you to do it blindly, just trusting in me, as I refused to trust in you.” She stopped and looked very seriously into Mr. Magee's face.

”I'm mighty glad,” he answered in a low tone. ”From the moment I saw you weeping in the station I've wanted to be of help to you. The station agent advised me not to interfere. He said to become involved with a weeping woman meant trouble. The fool. As though any trouble--”

”He was right,” put in the girl, ”it probably will mean trouble.”

”As though any storm,” finished Mr. Magee ”would not be worth the rainbow of your smile at the end.”

”A very fancy figure,” laughed she. ”But storms aren't nice.”

”There are a few of us,” replied Magee, ”who can be merry through the worst of them because of the rainbow to come.”

For answer, she flattened her finely-modeled nose into shapelessness against the cold pane. Back of them in the candle-lighted room, the motley crew of Baldpate's winter guests stood about in various att.i.tudes of waiting. In front of the fire the holder of the Chair of Comparative Literature quoted poetry to Mrs. Norton, and probably it never occurred to the old man that the woman to whom he talked was that nightmare of his life--a peroxide blonde. Ten feet away in the flickering half-light, the immense bulk of the mayor of Reuton reposed on the arm of a leather couch, and before him stood his lithe unpleasant companion, Lou Max, side by side with Mr. Bland, whose talk of haberdashery was forever stilled. The candles sputtered, the storm angrily rattled the windows; Mr. Peters flitted like a hairy wraith about the table. So the strange game that was being played at Baldpate Inn followed the example of good digestion and waited on appet.i.te.

What Mr. Magee flippantly termed his dinner party was seated at last, and there began a meal destined to linger long in the memories of those who partook if it. Puzzled beyond words, the host took stock of his guests. Opposite him, at the foot of the table, he could see the lined tired face of Mrs. Norton, dazed, uncomprehending, a little frightened.

At his right the great red acreage of Cargan's face held defiance and some amus.e.m.e.nt; beside it sneered the cruel face of Max; beyond that Mr.

Bland's countenance told a story of worry and impotent anger. And on Mr.

Magee's left sat the professor, bearded, spectacled, calm, seemingly undisturbed by this queer flurry of events, beside the fair girl of the station who trusted Magee at last. In the first few moments of silence Mr. Magee compared her delicate features with the coa.r.s.e knowing face of the woman at the table's foot, and inwardly answered ”No.”

Without the genial complement of talk the dinner began. Mr. Peters appeared with another variety of his canned soup, whereupon the silence was broken by the gastronomic endeavors of Mr. Max and the mayor. Mr.

Magee was reflecting that conversation must be encouraged, when Cargan suddenly spoke.

”I hope I ain't putting you folks out none,” he remarked with obvious sarcasm. ”It ain't my habit to drop in unexpected like this. But business--”

”We're delighted, I'm sure,” said Mr. Magee politely.

”I suppose you want to know why I'm here,” the mayor went on.

”Well--” he hesitated--”it's like this--”

”Dear Mr. Cargan,” Magee broke in, ”spare us, I pray. And spare yourself. We have had explanations until we are weary. We have decided to drop them altogether, and just to take it for granted that, in the words of the song, we're here because we're here.”

”All right,” replied Cargan, evidently relieved. ”That suits me. I'm tired explaining, anyhow. There's a bunch of reformers rose up lately in Reuton--maybe you've heard about 'em. A lovely bunch. A white necktie and a half-portion of brains apiece. They say they're going to do for me at the next election.”

Mr. Max laughed harshly from the vicinity of his soup.

”They wrote the first joke book, them people,” he said.

”Well,” went on Cargan, ”there ain't n.o.body so insignificant and piffling that people won't listen to 'em when they attack a man in public life. So I've had to reply to this comic opera bunch, and as I say, I'm about wore out explaining. I've had to explain that I never stole the town I used to live in in Indiana, and that I didn't stick up my father with a knife. It gets monotonous. So I'm much obliged to you for pa.s.sing the explanations up. We won't bother you long, me and Lou. I got a little business here, and then we'll mosey along. We'll clear out about nine o'clock.”

”No,” protested Magee. ”So soon? We must make it pleasant for you while you stay. I always hate hosts who talk about their servants--I have a friend who bores me to death because he has a j.a.p butler he believes was at Mukden. But I think I am justified in calling your attention to ours--Mr. Peters, the Hermit of Baldpate Mountain. Cooking is merely his avocation. He is writing a book.”

”That guy,” remarked Cargan, incredulous.

”What do you know about that?” asked Mr. Bland. ”It certainly will get a lot of hot advertising if it ever appears. It's meant to prove that all the trouble in the world has been caused by woman.”

The mayor considered.

”He's off--he's nutty, that fellow,” he announced. ”It ain't women that cause all of the trouble.”

”Thank you, Mr. Cargan,” said Miss Norton, smiling.