Part 1 (2/2)
”Don't be an a.s.s, Roland,” Duncan replied. ”It is about time you knew that the chief industry of 'the city of the future', as some fool journalist calls Chicago,--pork of course excepted,--is grain, and elevators are the warehouses where it is stored. I am going out to work a scheme to buy them all up, make a trust, and sell the stock in London.
Our house are the middlemen between Chicago and the Britons. Now do you see?”
”Well, I'm deuced glad I didn't go into Wall Street,” Roland replied. ”I shouldn't care to be shut up in that beastly hole, Chicago. I don't believe there is a sportsman in the place. I stopped there a day once on my way to Minnesota, grouse shooting, and I never saw such a rum place.
I put up at the biggest hotel in the town, and there wasn't much to complain of in the size of it; but the dirt and the n.i.g.g.e.rs were too much for me. I had to eat dinner at two o'clock and I wish you could have seen how they managed it. I was met at the door by a six-foot black man in a waistcoat that was perhaps white in the year one, and a coat made in the days of Henry Clay. He waltzed us down the room with the airs of a drum major and put us at a table with a drummer and a cow-boy.
There we were given in charge of another colored gentleman who polished off the plates with a greasy towel, and placed big tumblers of iced water at each place. He took our orders and brought us the soup in fairly good shape, except that his black fingers got into all the plates; but you ought to have seen the rest of the dinner. He started from the kitchen at a record-breaking pace, spinning a tray on the forefinger of his right hand. He galloped past us and deposited his implements on a side table, then he commenced to sling canary birds'
bath tubs, filled with heaven knows what, across the table like poker chips, until we had a perfect collection of samples of the most villainously cooked truck I ever tasted. I tried to make out a 'feed', but I gave it up when the black gentleman appeared with all sorts of pie, floating island, ice cream and jelly. I then fled in despair and went out for a walk, but I didn't find anything but mud, smoke, and cable cars. I tell you, Duncan, old man, you don't know what Chicago is, or you wouldn't look so beautifully unconcerned.”
A burst of laughter greeted Waterman's recital of his pathetic experience, and then Duncan, who little relished his coming exile, mournfully asked if any of the fellows knew some people of the right sort in the place.
”No one but a charming creature of the vintage of forty-nine whom I saw at the Pier last summer,” retorted Howard-Jones. ”She must ride sixteen stone, but she canters about like a yearling and plasters her hair all over her face in little curlycues, to say nothing of her voice, which used to run an effective opposition to the steam horn at the lighthouse.
But speaking of lighthouses, you should have seen her diamond earrings; the light on Point Judith wasn't a circ.u.mstance to them. When the heat was too much for her, she used to mop her face with a piece of chamois and puff like a crippled hunter. The papers called her 'the beautiful and accomplished leader of Chicago society.' I tell you, old man, she is the girl for you; she'll enliven your weary hours.”
Another laugh greeted this effusion, but Van Vort felt compelled to interpose an objection. ”I don't believe any of you fellows know the first thing about the West,” he said. ”Your ideas are bounded by Bar Harbor on the north and Was.h.i.+ngton on the south, and as for their western limits, they don't extend beyond Orange County.”
”Come, old chap, you're getting into deep water. Didn't I tell you I had been in Chicago?” objected Waterman.
”You went out West after chickens, and you didn't get beyond a Minnesota shooting club. As for Chicago, you admit that you were there on a muggy day and didn't stir two squares from an hotel which, I wager, wasn't the best in the place. As for the people, one of the best mannered women I ever met came from Chicago.”
”Who was she?” Duncan interrupted. ”If there is anybody decent in the place I want to know her.”
”Her name is Mrs. Sanderson. I met her in Was.h.i.+ngton last winter. Her uncle was in the State Department and she was visiting him. She had a friend with her who is also from Chicago, I think, and they both of them were better read and had less affectation than any women I have met for a year, at least.”
”That sounds encouraging,” replied Duncan. ”I think I have heard Sibyl Wright talk about that Mrs. Sanderson. If there is any sport in Chicago I am bound to have it. My old college chum, Harold Wainwright, has been living out there for three years and he must know the town by this time.”
”I say, Duncan, won't you have some more liquor? You need it to fortify your nerves for that voyage of discovery.”
”I think you are right, Roland,” Duncan replied. ”By Jove, though, I don't believe I have time; I have got a date before dinner.”
”Oh, yes you have; just one more for luck. Here, waiter, take the orders.”
The gla.s.ses were soon removed and freshly filled ones took their place.
”When are you off?” said Waterman.
”To-morrow on the 'Limited'” was the reply.
”Then let's drink to the great Duncan and his success among the pork-packers,” said Howard-Jones.
The four men quickly drained their gla.s.ses and Duncan took a hurried leave of his friends. ”Good-by, Duncan, good-by,” were the exchanged partings. Duncan hurried through the hall, hailed a cab at the door, gave an uptown address to the driver, jumped into the cab, and was off.
CHAPTER II.
CROSS FIRE.
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