Part 30 (1/2)
Turning to Pinkey, Canby said: ”I'll give you a hundred and fifty for your horse.”
Pinkey hesitated. It was a hundred more than it was worth.
”I guess not.” Wallie's voice was curt. ”I'm clairvoyant, Canby, and I've read your thought. You can't stop payment by telephone, because Pink is going to close-herd you right here until I ride to Prouty and get this cashed.”
Pinkey's jaw dropped.
”By the long-horn toads of Texas! I wouldn't 'a' thought of that in a month!”
As Wallie put his foot into the stirrup for the first time his face relaxed. He looked over his shoulder and grinned:
”If you listen, maybe you'll hear something making a noise like a dude ranch, Pink.”
CHAPTER XVI
THE EXODUS
Never had Mr. Cone put in such a summer! The lines in his forehead looked as if they had been made with a harrow and there were times when his eyes had the expression of a hunted animal. Pacifying disgruntled guests was now as much a part of the daily routine as making out the menus. In the halcyon days when a guest had a complaint, he made it aside, delicately, as a suggestion. Now he made a point of dressing Mr.
Cone down publicly. In truth, baiting the landlord seemed to be in the nature of a recreation with the guests of The Colonial. Threats to leave were of common occurrence, and Mr. Cone longed to be once more in a position to tell them calmly to use their own pleasure in the matter.
But what with high taxes, excessive wages, extensive improvements still to be paid for, prudence kept him silent.
The only way in which he could explain the metamorphosis was that the guests were imbued with the spirit of discontent that prevailed throughout the world in the years following the war. The theory did not make his position easier, however, nor alter the fact that he all but fell to trembling when a patron approached to leave his key or get a drink of ice water at the cooler.
As he lay awake wondering what next they would find to complain of, he framed splendid answers, dignified yet stinging, but when the time came to use them he remembered his expenses and his courage always failed him.
In his heart, he felt that this could not go on forever--some day someone would speak just the right word and he would surprise them. He had come to listen with comparative equanimity to the statement that his hotel was badly managed, the service poor, and the food the worst served on the beach-front, but there was the very strong possibility that someone would inadvertently touch a sensitive nerve and he would ”fly off the handle.” When that happened, Mr. Cone dreaded the outcome.
Such were conditions at The Colonial when the folders arrived announcing the opening of the Lolabama Ranch to tourists--the name meaning Happy Wigwam. Messrs. Macpherson and Fripp, it stated, were booking guests for the remainder of the season and urged those who had a taste for the Great Outdoors to consider what they had to offer. The folders created a sensation. They came in the morning after a night of excessive heat and humidity. The guests found them in their mail when, fishy-eyed and irritable, they went in to breakfast.
A new elevator boy who had jarred them by the violence of his stops had not improved their tempers, therefore few of them failed to comment to Mr. Cone upon the increasing wretchedness of the service.
While they fanned themselves and prophesied a day that was going to be a ”scorcher” they read of a country where the nights were so cool that blankets were necessary, where the air was so invigorating that langour was unheard of, with such a variety of scenery that the eye never wearied. There were salt baths that made the old young again, big game in the mountains for the adventurous, fis.h.i.+ng, with bait in untold quant.i.ties, saddle-horses for equestrians, innumerable walks for pedestrians, an excellent table provided with the best the market offered, and, finally, a tour of the Yellowstone Park under the personal guidance of the hosts of The Lolabama in a stage-coach drawn by four horses, by motor, or on horseback as suited their pleasure.
Small wonder that life on The Colonial veranda suddenly looked tame after reading the folder and studying the pictures! Their discontent took the form of an increasing desire to nag Mr. Cone. Vaguely they held him responsible for the heat, the humidity, the monotony of the ocean, and their loss of appet.i.te due to lack of exercise.
On an impulse, Mr. Henry Appel, after consulting with his wife, got up abruptly and went inside for the purpose of having a plain talk with Mr.
Cone.
Mr. Cone, who was making out the weekly bills, pretended not to see him until he cleared his throat and said very distinctly:
”May I have your attention, Mr. Cone?”
Quaking, Mr. Cone stepped forward briskly and apologized.
Ignoring the apology, Mr. Appel began impressively:
”You cannot have failed to see, Mr. Cone, that my wife and I have been thoroughly dissatisfied this summer, as we have been at no great pains to conceal it. We have been coming here for twenty-two seasons, but we feel that we cannot put up with things any longer and are hereby giving you notice that next Thursday our room will be at your disposal.”