Part 8 (2/2)
”Got the mate to that?” Webb asked easily. ”I don't like to see fine tobacco-smoke floatin' about in hot weather unless I'm helpin' to make it.”
Mostyn gave him a cigar. ”What is this I hear Of your club-meeting to-night?” he asked, smiling at Dolly.
”It is an impromptu affair,” she answered, almost reluctantly. Then she began to smile, and her color rose. ”The truth is, the whole thing started as a joke on me. I could have backed down if I had wished, but I didn't, and now it is too late.”
”You'll think it's too late”--Webb was drawing at his cigar, which he held against the fire of Mostyn's--”when them fellers git through arguin', an' you the only one on your side!”
”How is that?” Mostyn asked, wonderingly.
Dolly averted her eyes. ”Why,” she explained, ”for a long time the club has threatened to select some subject to be discussed only between Warren Wilks and myself. I didn't think much about it at the time and said it would suit me, thinking, of course, that it would only be heard by a few club-members, but now what do you think they have done?”
”I can't imagine,” Mostyn answered, heartily enjoying her gravity of tone and manner.
”Why, they are not only holding me to my agreement, but they have selected a topic for discussion which of all subjects under the sun is completely beyond me. They are doing it for a joke, and they expect me to acknowledge defeat. I've been at the point all day of ignoring the whole business, and yet somehow it nearly kills me to give in. I laugh when I think about it, for the joke is on me, sure enough.”
”But the subject,” Mostyn urged her, ”what is it?”
”Have women the right to vote?'” dropped from the girl's smiling lips.
”Oh, great! great!” the banker laughed. ”I hope you are not going to let a few silly men back you down.”
”I don't really see how I am going to escape going through with it,”
Dolly said. ”They have sent notices all up and down the valley, and the house will be full. Look! there goes a wagon-load now. Two things are bothering me. I came out here to try to write down a few points, but not one idea has come in my head. That's the first stumbling-block, and the other is even more serious. You see, up to this time my side has generally won because when it was left to the audience the women all stood up and voted for me. I've seen them so anxious to help me out that they would force their children to stand on the benches so their heads would be counted.”
”But aren't the women going to-night?” Mostyn inquired.
”More than ever got inside _that_ house,” Dolly said, despondently, ”but, as much as they like me and think I know what I'm talking about as a general rule, they won't be on my side of _this_ argument. They think woman's suffrage originated in the bad place. They will think I'm plumb crazy, but I can't help it. I understand that a lawyer doesn't have actually to believe in his side of a question--he simply makes as big a display of the evidence as he can muster up. Warren Wilks and the other men are tickled to death over the fun they are going to have with me to-night.”
”I wouldn't miss it for any amount of money,” Mostyn said, winking at the contented smoker on his right.
”I wouldn't, nuther,” Webb chuckled. ”Warren Wilks is a funny duck on the platform, an' he don't let a chance slip to git a joke on Dolly.
She has downed him several times, but I reckon he'll swat 'er good an'
heavy to-night.”
”Well, I'll certainly have nothing to say if I stand here listening to you two,” Dolly said, with a smile. ”I'm going to my room to try to think up something. I'm awfully tired, anyway. I was at Barnett's till twelve o'clock last night.”
”How is Robby?” Mostyn asked.
”He is out of danger,” Dolly answered, as she turned away. ”The doctor told me to-day that the child had had a narrow escape. A week ago he gave him up, and was surprised when he saw him doing so well yesterday.”
CHAPTER VIII
Half an hour later the little cast-iron bell in the steeple of the meeting-house rang. Tom Drake and his wife and John Webb left the farmhouse, and, joining some people from the village, sauntered down the road. Tom was in his s.h.i.+rt-sleeves, for the evening was warm, but Mrs. Drake wore her best black dress with a bright piece of ribbon at the neck, a scarf over her head. Webb carried his coat on his arm and was cooling himself with a palm-leaf fan.
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