Part 37 (1/2)
”Come right in, all of you,” chirruped Mrs. Quimby, ushering them into a pleasant odor of cookery. ”Take off your things and sit down.
Breakfast's most ready. My land, I guess you must be pretty nigh starved to death. Quimby told me who was cooking for you, and I says to Quimby: 'What,' I says, 'that no account woman-hater messing round at a woman's job, like that,' I says. 'Heaven pity the people at the inn,' I says.
'Mr. Peters may be able to amuse them with stories of how Cleopatra whiled away the quiet Egyptian evenings,' I says, 'and he may be able to throw a little new light on Helen of Troy, who would object to having it thrown if she was alive and the lady I think her, but,' I says, 'when it comes to cooking, I guess he stands about where you do, Quimby.' You see, Quimby's repertory consists of coffee and soup, and sometimes it's hard to tell which he means for which.”
”So Mr. Peters has taken you in on the secret of the book he is writing against your s.e.x?” remarked Billy Magee.
”Not exactly that,” Mrs. Quimby answered, brus.h.i.+ng back a wisp of gray hair, ”but he's discussed it in my presence, ignoring me at the time.
You see, he comes down here and reads his latest chapters to Quimby o'
nights, and I've caught quite a lot of it on my way between the cook-stove and the sink.”
”I ain't no judge of books,” remarked Mrs. Norton from a comfortable rocking-chair, ”but I'll bet that one's the limit.”
”You're right, ma'am,” Mrs. Quimby told her. ”I ain't saying that some of it ain't real pretty worded, but that's just to hide the falsehood underneath. My land, the lies there is in that book! You don't need to know much about history to know that Jake Peters has made it over to fit his argument, and that he ain't made it over so well but what the old seams show here and there, and the place where the braid was is plain as daylight.”
After ten more minutes of bustle, Mrs. Quimby announced that they could sit down, and they were not slow to accept the invitation. The breakfast she served them moved Mr. Magee to remark:
”I want to know where I stand as a judge of character. On the first night I saw Mrs. Quimby, without tasting a morsel of food cooked by her, I said she was the best cook in the county.”
The professor looked up from his griddle cakes.
”Why limit it to the county?” he asked. ”I should say you were too parsimonious in your judgment.”
Mrs. Quimby, detecting in the old man's words a compliment, flushed an even deeper red as she bent above the stove. Under the benign influence of the food and the woman's cheery personality, the spirits of the crowd rose. Baldpate Inn was in the past, its doors locked, its seven keys scattered through the dawn. Mrs. Quimby, as she continued to press food upon them, spoke with interest of the events that had come to pa.s.s at the inn.
”It's so seldom anything really happens around here,” she said, ”I just been hungering for news of the strange goings-on up there. And I must say Quimby ain't been none too newsy on the subject. I threatened to come up and join in the proceedings myself, especially when I heard about the book-writing cook Providence had sent you.”
”You would have found us on the porch with outstretched arms,” Mr. Magee a.s.sured her.
It was on Kendrick that Mrs. Quimby showered her attentions, and when the group rose to seek the station, amid a consultation of watches that recalled the commuter who rises at dawn to play tag with a flippant train, Mr. Magee heard her say to the railroad man in a heartfelt aside:
”I don't know as I can ever thank you enough, Mr. Kendrick, for putting new hope into Quimby. You'll never understand what it means, when you've given up, and your life seems all done and wasted, to hear that there's a chance left.”
”Won't I?” replied Kendrick warmly. ”Mrs. Quimby, it will make me a very happy man to give your husband his chance.”
The first streaks of dawn were in the sky when the hermits of Baldpate filed through the gate into the road, waving good-by to Quimby and his wife, who stood in their dooryard for the farewell. Down through sleepy little Asquewan Falls they paraded, meeting here and there a tired man with a lunch basket in his hand, who stepped to one side and frankly stared while the odd procession pa.s.sed.
In the station Mr. Magee encountered an old friend--he of the mop of ginger-colored hair. The man who had complained of the slowness of the village gazed with wide eyes at Magee.
”I figured,” he said, ”that you'd come this way again. Well, I must say you've put a little life into this place. If I'd known when I saw you here the other night all the exciting things you had up your sleeve, I'd a-gone right up to Baldpate with you.”
”But I hadn't anything up my sleeve,” protested Magee.
”Maybe,” replied the agent, winking. ”There's some pretty giddy stories going round about the carryings-on up at Baldpate. Shots fired, and strange lights flas.h.i.+ng--dog-gone it, the only thing that's happened here in years, and I wasn't in on it. I certainly wish you'd put me wise to it.”
”By the way,” inquired Magee, ”did you notice the pa.s.sengers from here on the ten-thirty train last night?”
”Ten-thirty,” repeated the agent. ”Say, what sort of hours do you think I keep? A man has to get some sleep, even if he does work for a railroad. I wasn't here at ten-thirty last night. Young Cal Hunt was on duty then. He's home and in bed now.”
No help there. Into the night the girl and the two hundred thousand had fled together, and Mr. Magee could only wait, and wonder, as to the meaning of that flight.