Part 8 (1/2)
”Oh, mother!” Millie, deeply concerned, came from behind the desk and went up to the older woman, questioning, ”You don't suppose his pension has come?”
”I think it's gone!” Mrs. Jones bowed emphatically in a rising voice and hurried to the desk on the Nevada side, where she took a cursory but none the less exhaustive look at the mail indexes. ”I found him hanging around this desk this morning, and when I come in he beat it, sayin', before I could stop him, that he was goin' after the mail. I wonder--”
She stopped and gave a deep groan of acquiescence. ”Huh! Huh!” She had opened up the top of the desk to find a half-filled flask. ”There!” she exclaimed, holding it to the light. ”He was waiting for a chance to get this when I shooed him away!”
Millie put her arm around her and drew her into the middle of the room, trying to soothe her. ”Anyway, don't let's blame him for anything until we're sure. He may come home perfectly all right. You know he loves the woods and the lake and the autumn coloring which is so wonderful now. He always lingers like this. Please go up-stairs and have a good rest.”
Millie tried to lead her mother toward the stairs, but Mrs. Jones gently shook the girl's arm from about her waist and went toward the kitchen.
”Where are you going?” Millie asked, standing still, a puzzled frown giving place to an understanding laugh as Mrs. Jones hesitated and looked at the floor, answering in a manner half ashamed: ”Why--well--I thought--” she stammered, ”he might come home soon, an' he's used to findin' somethin' good kept warm--though he don't deserve it!”
She hesitated, her kindly, better nature s.h.i.+ning in her eyes, battling for expression. ”Yes--please set a place for him, Millie!” And Mrs.
Jones hastily disappeared into the kitchen to avoid the girl's rippling laugh of gentle amus.e.m.e.nt. Smiling to herself, Millie crossed the lobby and went into the dining-room.
The moment she had left the lobby the street door of the hotel was pushed open cautiously and an inquiring head thrust itself in. The head was that of Bill Jones. Evidently satisfied that the coast was clear, Bill came slowly into the lobby. Looking warily up at the stairs on either side, and toward the dining-room and kitchen doors, he eased himself softly over to the Nevada desk, raised the top and fumbled expectantly inside.
CHAPTER VI
As Bill reached the desk and lifted the top, another gray-haired old man, possibly the same age as Lightnin', though larger and huskier in build, stole in through the street door and stood there doubtfully, puffing a cigar. He looked about fearfully, evidently ready to decamp at an instant's notice; but his glance, traveling back to the figure at the desk, bespoke a childlike trustfulness in Bill Jones. This gentleman's clothes were as disreputable as might be, as was his battered slouch-hat. His face was very red and very unshaven, and his expression was a comical mixture of uncertainty as to his welcome on the premises and maudlin kindliness toward the world at large. He rejoiced in the name of ”Zeb,” and was a down-and-out prospector, a relic of the past.
His only reason for existence these days seemed to be that he was a crony and devout satellite of Bill's--to the great aggravation of Mrs.
Jones. There was a legend in the district that Zeb and Bill had spent many years together in the old days, up and down the trails. There seemed to be considerable truth in the story. Anyway, no efforts of Mrs.
Jones's or of anybody else's could make Bill forget his pal. Zeb was always sure of a meal, or a drink and a cigar, provided Lightnin' could find a way of producing those necessities of a broken-down prospector's life.
Bill felt around in the desk for a minute, while Zeb watched, fearfully, hopefully; then Lightnin' turned around, disappointment in his face. But before he could break the sad news regarding the strange disappearance of a half-filled flask, Zeb held up a warning finger and began to back through the door. His ear, ever keen for the swish of Mrs. Jones's skirts, reported danger.
”What's the matter, Zeb?” Bill asked. ”Aw, come back. What ye 'fraid of?” With a disgusted motion he beckoned Zeb into the room again.
But Zeb, answering the warning that had never failed him, stayed close to the door, whispering back to Bill, ”Where's your old woman?”
”That's all right. Come on in. She ain't here now.” Bill, determined in his search, lifted the lid a second time and began to take out the contents of the drawer.
Zeb, taking heart, tiptoed up to him and, looking over his shoulder, murmured, contemptuously, ”I don't believe you've got a drop.”
”I'll show ye!” Looking intently under the lid, Bill's voice was half smothered. It stopped short when the kitchen door flew open and Mrs.
Jones burst with emphatic and quick tread into the room.
She did not pay heed to Bill at once. Zeb received the full force of her mood. ”Clear out now!” she called, in no gentle tone, as she swept up to him--an unnecessary action, as Zeb, catching one glance of the irate woman, made double-quick time in getting out of the door and down the steps of the veranda.
Zeb disposed of, Mrs. Jones turned her attention to her errant husband.
Both arms akimbo, she stood still in the middle of the floor and concentrated her glare upon him.
”Bill Jones,” she asked, in a loud, rasping tone, ”where have you been?”
Bill had put down the lid at the first hint of her entrance. While she was addressing Zeb he had quietly slipped behind the desk and busied himself with the mail which he had drawn from the back pocket of his trousers. Whistling softly to himself, he sorted the letters, placing them in their proper pigeonholes.
He did not answer Mrs. Jones at once, but went on whistling. After a second in which he decided that a soft answer might draw the sting from her wrath, he stood still and, without looking around, said, gently, ”h.e.l.lo, mother.” Without waiting for a reply, he went on sorting the mail.