Part 32 (1/2)
Promptly at six Linder drew his automobile up in front of the Transley summer home with Grant and Murdoch on board. Wilson had been watching, and rushed down upon them, but before he could clamber up on Grant a great teddy-bear was thrust into his arms and sent him, wild with delight, to his mother.
”Look, mother! Look what The-Man-on-the-Hill brought! See! He has fire in his eyes!”
Transley and Y.D. met the guests at the gate. ”How do, Grant? Glad to see you, old man,” said Transley, shaking his hand cordially. ”The wife has had so many good words for you I am almost jealous. What ho, Linder!
By all that's wonderful! You old prairie dog, why did you never look me up? I was beginning to think the Boche had got you.”
Grant introduced Murdoch, and Y.D. received them as cordially as had Transley. ”Glad to see you fellows back,” he exclaimed. ”I al'us said the Western men 'ud put a crimp in the Kaiser, spite o' h.e.l.l an' high water!”
”One thing the war has taught us,” said Grant, modestly, ”is that men are pretty much alike, whether they come from west or east or north or south. No race has a monopoly of heroism.”
”Well, come on in,” Transley beckoned, leading the way. ”Dinner will be ready sharp on time twenty minutes late. Not being a married man, Grant, you will not understand that reckoning. You'll have to excuse Mrs.
Transley a few minutes; she's holding down the accelerator in the kitchen. Come in; I want you to meet Squiggs.”
Squiggs proved to be a round man with huge round tortoise-sh.e.l.l gla.s.ses and round red face to match. He shook hands with a manner that suggested that in doing so he was making rather a good fellow of himself.
”We must have a little lubrication, for Y.D.'s sake,” said Transley, producing a bottle and gla.s.ses. ”I suppose it was the dust on the plains that gave these old cow punchers a thirst which never can be slaked.
These be evil days for the old-timers. Grant?”
”Not any, thanks.”
”No? Well, there's no accounting for tastes. Squiggs?”
”I'm a lawyer,” said Squiggs, ”and as booze is now ultra vires I do my best to keep it down,” and Mr. Squiggs beamed genially upon his pleasantry and the full gla.s.s in his hand.
”I take a snort when I want it and I don't care who knows it,” said Y.D.
”I al'us did, and I reckon I'll keep on to the finish. It didn't snuff me out in my youth and innocence, anyway. Just the same, I'm admittin'
it's bad medicine in onskilful hands. Here's ho!”
The gla.s.ses had just been drained when Mrs. Transley entered the room, flushed but radiant from a strenuous half hour in the kitchen.
”Well, here you are!” she exclaimed. ”So glad you could come, Mr. Grant.
Why, Mr. Linder! Of all people--This IS a pleasure. And Mr.--?”
”Mr. Murdoch,” Transley supplied.
”My chief of staff; the man who persists in keeping me rich,” Grant elaborated.
”I mustn't keep you waiting longer. Dinner is ready. Dad, you are to carve.”
”Hanged if I will! I'm a guest here, and I stand on my rights,” Y.D.
exploded.
”Then you must do it, Frank.”
”I suppose so,” said Transley, ”although all I get out of a meal when I have to carve is splas.h.i.+ng and profanity. You know, Squiggs, I've figured it out that this practice of requiring the nominal head of the house to carve has come down from the days when there wasn't usually enough to go 'round, and the carver had to make some fine decisions and, perhaps, maintain them by force. It has no place under modern civilization.”
”Except that someone must do it, and it's about the only household responsibility man has not been able to evade,” said Mrs. Transley.