Part 12 (1/2)

_FERRIS STANHOPE_.

The popular author of ”Rosamund,” etc., who will reopen the old Stanhope cottage near Hunston, New York, and spend the autumn there upon a new novel.

Mr. Stanhope's health has not been good of late, and his physicians have recommended an extended stay in this quiet Hudson River country.

Here was that ”Mr. Ferris,” whom the young lady of the grocery had coyly saluted; the ”Beany,” whom the pale young editor had bluntly bidden to leave town; and the literary celebrity whom Miss Mary Carstairs so evidently and so warmly admired. Varney stared at the portrait with a kind of fascination. Now he saw many points of difference between the face of ”the popular author” and his own. The resemblance was only general, after all. Still it was undoubtedly strong enough to warrant all kinds of mistakes.

What a very extraordinary sort of thing to have happen!

Suddenly his eye fell upon a penciled line in the white margin above the picture which had at first escaped him:

”On no account leave the yacht till I come back. Vitally important.”

Varney pitched the magazine across the deck with an irritated laugh.

Peter--utterly ignorant of how matters stood--attempting to fire off long-distance orders and direct his movements. The splendid gall!

As it chanced, he had no occasion to leave the yacht, either before or after Peter got back. His work was done. He made himself comfortable with morning papers and a novel--not one of Mr. Stanhope's--and began to seek beguilement.

But his reading went forward rather fitfully. There were long intervals when his book, ”eleventh printing” though it was, slipped forgotten to his knees, and he sat staring thoughtfully over the sunny water....

Peter failed to keep his promise about returning to the yacht at ten o'clock. In fact, it was four o'clock that afternoon when he arrived, and at that, the manner in which he sprang up the stair indicated him as a man who had but few moments to spare to yachts and that sort of thing.

Varney, at his ease upon the transom, watched his friend's approach with a quizzical eye.

”Greetings, old comrade! How did you leave them all in Hunston?”

Peter, who, truth to tell, had been looking forward to bitter personal denunciation, looked somewhat relieved, and laughed. However, his manner suggested little of hang-dog consciousness of guilt; it was far too absorbed and business-like for that. He dropped down into a chair by Varney and swabbed the back of his neck with a damp-looking handkerchief.

”Larry, who'd have dreamed last night that we were parting for all this time?”

”Well, not I for one.”

”Awfully sorry about it all, and I know you'll think I'm acting like a funny kind of helper. I hadn't the faintest idea of bottling you up on the yacht all day like this, but--well, you might say, Larry, that a man couldn't help it to save his life. I certainly meant to be back by the time you had finished breakfast and explain the whole situation to you--there are a deuced lot of complications, you know--but one thing led right on to another and--good Lord! I couldn't find a minute with a fine-tooth comb.”

”It's all right, statesman. You don't hear me making any complaints. All I ask is a little _resume_ of what you've been doing since you so cleverly lost me. In Reform to the ears, I suppose?”

Peter again looked rather surprised at his chief's easy indifference.

”You want that part of it first? Well,” he said rapidly, ”I've been trying to do four days' work for Reform in one, and a pinch it's been to make both ends meet, I can tell you. At it practically without a break since I left you last night. J. Pinkney took me right in and bared his soul. Said he was down and out and beaten to a fluid. A clever little devil fast enough, but no more idea of how to play the game than a baby baboon. When he caught on to what I wanted to do for him, he would have fallen on my neck except that he isn't that kind. That was this morning.

I worked out my idea in the still watches: couldn't sleep for thinking of it. It just means this: if my plans carry through Hare gets the biggest hearing to-night that this old town can give. And I think they'll carry all right. You wouldn't be interested in the details. Now this other thing--”

”Oh, but I would, though! Give me at least a peep behind the scenes before you dash on. What about these plans of yours?”

Peter laid down the newspaper with which he had been busily fanning himself. A sudden light came into his eyes.

”I'll tell you just how it all happened,” he said in an eager voice.

”Only I'll have to hurry, as I'm due back in town right away--that is, of course, unless you should need me for anything. Well, I left Hare last night after only a couple of hours' talk, listening to the same old story of boss-rule, and giving him, if I do say it, some cracking good practical pointers. By the way, we were interrupted at that. Hadn't got started before Hare remembered that he'd promised to bring some girl home from somewhere, and dragged me off a mile down the road, only to find out afterwards that she'd gone home with somebody else. Made me tired. I left him about ten o'clock and started down Main Street for the river, meaning to come straight back here. But as I was footing it along, thinking over my talk with Hare and attending to my own business, who should brace me but that pale-faced rascal we saw playing dead in the rowboat. This time the _poseur_ was lying flat on some packing-cases in front of a store, and who do you suppose he turned out to be?”

”The brains of the machine,” said Varney.