Part 2 (1/2)
[Ill.u.s.tration: ”'ELEANOR HUYLER HAS DISAPPEARED'”]
Removing his shoes, Van Squibber, with a cry which brought the hungry beast bounding out into the path, started on a dead run, while Miss Huyler, full of confidence that the story would end happily whatever she might do, walked boldly up to the tawny creature, wondering much, however, why her rescuer had removed his shoes. It was strange that, knowing Van Squibber as well as she did, she did not at once perceive his motive in declining to run in walking-shoes, but in moments of peril we are all excusable for our vagaries of thought! You never can tell, when you are in danger, what may happen next, for if you could you would know how it is all going to turn out; but as it is, mental disturbance is quite to be expected.
For once Van Squibber failed. He ran fast enough and betrayed enough cowardice to attract the attention of ten lions, but this special lion, by some fearful idiosyncrasy of fate, which you never can count on, was not to be deceived. With a louder roar than any he had given, he pounced upon the brave woman, and in an instant she was no more. Van Squibber, turning to see how matters stood, was just in time to witness the final engulfment of the fair girl in the lion's jaws.
”Egad!” he cried. ”_I have failed!_ And now what remains to be done?
Shall I return and fight the lion, or shall I keep on and go to the club? If I kill the lion, people will know that I have been walking in the park before breakfast. If I continue my present path and go to the club, the fellows will all want to know what I mean by coming without my shoes on. What a dilemma! Ah! I have it; I will go home.”
And that is what Van Squibber did. He went back to his rooms in the Quigmore at once, hastily undressed, and when, an hour later, his man returned with the soda mint drop, he was sleeping peacefully.
That night he met Travers at the club reading the _Evening Moon_.
”h.e.l.lo, Van!” said Travers. ”Heard the news?”
”No. What?” asked Van Squibber, languidly.
”Eleanor Huyler has disappeared.”
”By Jove!” cried Van Squibber, with well-feigned surprise. ”I heard the boys crying 'Extra,' but I never dreamed they would put out an extra for her.”
”They haven't,” said Travers. ”The extra's about the lion.”
”Ah! And what's happened to the lion?” cried Van Squibber, nervously.
”He's dead. Got loose this morning early, and was found at ten o'clock dying of indigestion. It is supposed he has devoured some man, name unknown, for before his nose was an uneaten patent-leather pump, size 9-3/4 B, and in his throat was stuck the other, half eaten.”
”Ha!” muttered Van Squibber, turning pale. ”And they don't know whose shoes they were?” he added, in a hoa.r.s.e whisper.
”No,” said Travers. ”There's no clew, even.”
Van Squibber breathed a sigh of relief.
”Robert!” he cried, addressing the waiter, ”bring me a schooner of absinthe, and ask Mr. Travers what he'll have.” And then, turning, he said, _sotto voce_, to himself, ”Saved! And Eleanor is revenged. Van Squibber may have failed, but his patent-leather pumps have conquered.”
III
IN WHICH A MINCE-PIE IS RESPONSIBLE FOR A REMARKABLE COINCIDENCE
When Mr. Sn.o.bbe sat down after the narration of his story, there was a thunderous outburst of applause. It was evident that the exciting narrative had pleased his fellow-diners very much--as, indeed, it was proper that it should, since it dealt in a veiled sort of way with characters for whom all right-minded persons have not only a deep-seated admiration, but a feeling of affection as well. They had, one and all, in common with the unaffected portion of the reading community, a liking for the wholesome and clean humor of Mr. Van Bibber, and the fact that Sn.o.bbe's story suggested a certain original, even in a weak sort of fas.h.i.+on, made them like it in spite of its shortcomings.
”Good work,” cried Hudson Rivers. ”Of course it's only gas in comparison with the sun, but it gives light, and we like it.”
”And it's wholly original, too, even though an imitation in manner. The real Van Bibber never failed in anything he undertook,” said Tenafly Paterson. ”I've often wished he might have, just once--it would have made him seem more human--and for that reason I think Tom is ent.i.tled to praise.”
”I don't know about that,” observed Monty St. Vincent. ”Tom hadn't anything to do with it--it was the dinner. Honor to whom honor is due, say I. Praise the cook, or the caterer.”
”That's the truth,” put in Billie Jones. ”Fact is, when this book of ours comes out, I think, instead of putting our names on the t.i.tle-page as authors, the thing to do is to print the menu.”