Part 13 (2/2)

Mr. Files, left alone to meet Britt, resolved to hand that tyrant a partial sop by having breakfast on the table the moment the regular boarder unfolded his napkin; food might stop Britt's mouth to some extent, the landlord reflected.

Result of this precautionary courtesy! The breakfast was a mess when Britt arrived, a half hour late. Mr. Files had depended on his boarder's invariable punctuality and had been obliged to keep ”hotting up” the food, watching the clock with increasing despair.

Britt smiled on the landlord when they faced each other in the dining room. The smile made the landlord s.h.i.+ver. He was dreading the explosion.

He set on the viands as timidly as a child holding out peanuts to an elephant. Mr. Britt beamed blandly and spoke of the change in the weather and said he was hoping that ”Old Reliable Ike wouldn't be bothered too much by the soft footing on his way to Levant.”

Mr. Files gasped when he heard this consideration expressed for the ringleader of the evening's demonstration. He recovered sufficiently to start in on an explanation of the condition of the food.

”It's all right, Files! It's my fault. I overslept.”

Britt ate for a few minutes; then he suspended operations and looked Files hard in the face; that face, as to mouth, was as widely open as the countenance of the office alligator. ”I did a whole lot of thinking last night, Files. I'm telling you first, like I propose to tell others in Egypt as I come in contact with 'em during the day--it has been my fault--how things have happened! The night brings counsel! Yes, sir, it surely does.” He went on eating.

”Mr. Britt, I was afraid--”

Pharaoh waved his knife expostulatingly. ”I know it, Files! Your face told me the whole story when I stepped in here. But I'm a changed man.

I know when I'm down. However, it's my own fault, I repeat. I stubbed my toe over the trigs I had set in the way of my own operations. I deserve what I'm getting--and the lesson will make me a different man from now on.”

Mr. Files staggered out into the kitchen in order to be alone with his thoughts.

Britt spent a longer time than usual in the tavern office after breakfast; he smoked two cigars, himself, and gave a cigar to each of the early citizens who dropped in through the front way after they had received certain information from Files, who excitedly had beckoned them to come to him at the ell door. Mr. Britt frankly exposed his new sentiments about living and doing. When he put on his overcoat and went forth, Prophet Elias popped out of the door of Usial's cot like the little gowned figure of a toy barometer. Britt waved his hand in cheerful greeting. ”Prophet Elias, hand me that text about the way of the transgressor being a hard one to travel, and I'll take it in a meek and lowly spirit and be much obliged.” There was no sarcasm in Britt's tone; on the contrary, his manner agreed with his profession regarding meekness. The Prophet swapped stares with Files, who stood in the tavern door; that Elias was greatly impressed was evident, because he withheld speech.

That situation had enough drawing power to bring the brother to the cottage door; he appeared, his spider in his hand.

”Good morning, Usial,” called Tasper. ”I own up that you're a convincing writer. According to your request, you see I'm giving you your right name. The voters are giving you honors. Who knows what another issue of _The Hornet_ may get for you?” Britt's tone was one of bluff sincerity.

Egypt's Pharaoh did not seem to be a bit put out because no one replied to him in this astonis.h.i.+ng levee. He descended from the porch and strolled off toward Britt Block, puffing his cigar.

He found the cas.h.i.+er alone in the bank. Vaniman hastened to put in the first word. ”President Britt, I'm ready to wind up my affairs, and I hope you see the wisdom in holding our talk strictly to the business in hand.”

The president walked in past the grille and sat down at the table; by the mere look he gave the young man Britt succeeded in climaxing the succession of the morning's surprises; Vaniman had more reason than the others to be amazed.

”Frank, I'm sorry!” There was wistful fervor in the declaration; for the first time in their a.s.sociation the president had called the cas.h.i.+er by his Christian name.

Vaniman had risen from his stool; he sat down again and goggled at Britt.

”If the two of us begin to apologize, we'll get all snarled up,” went on the president. ”Real men can get down to cases in a better way. I did a lot of thinking last night; probably you did, too. The h.e.l.l fire I went through yesterday would upset any man. To-day I'm scorched and sensible.

I went after something I couldn't get. Just now I don't ask you to stay here permanently. You can stay right along if you want to, I'll say that here and now! But if you're bound to go--later--go when you can leave on the square, after you have broken another man into the job, if you feel you don't want it. I'll send you away then with my best wishes and a clean bill! Please don't make me crawl any more'n I'm doing!”

It was an appeal to Youth's hale generosity--and generosity dominated all the other qualities in Vaniman's nature. ”I'll stay, Mr. Britt,” he blurted. ”After what you have said I can't help staying.”

The banker rose and stretched out his hand. ”Men can put more into a grip of the fist than women can into an afternoon of gabble, Frank.”

After the vigorous clasp of palm in palm, Britt had something more to say. ”Vona was terribly stirred up last night, and n.o.body can blame her.

She served notice on me that she was done in the bank. But she needs the money and you and I need her help. Go up and ask her to walk back in here as if nothing had happened. And tell her that what I said about the raise in her pay holds good.”

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