Part 20 (1/2)
”Well, I am sorry you didn't make a fortune, my boy. But, rich or poor, your friends are delighted to see you, and we shall certainly keep you for dinner. I am interested in that Northwestern country myself, and I want to ask some questions about it.”
CHAPTER X
IN WHICH BIG GEORGE MEETS HIS ENEMY
It was well on toward midnight when Emerson reached his hotel, and being too full of his visit with Mildred to sleep, he strolled through the lobby and into the Pompeian Room. The theatre crowds had not dispersed, and the place was a-glitter; for it was the grand-opera season. The room was so well filled that he had difficulty in finding a seat, and he made his way slowly, meditating gloomily upon the fact that out of all this concourse in which he had once figured not a single familiar face greeted him.
Finding no unoccupied table, he was about to retreat when he heard his name spoken and felt a vigorous slap upon the back.
”Boyd Emerson! By Jove, I'm glad to see you!” He turned to face an anaemic youth whose colorless, gas-bleached face was wrinkled into an expansive grin.
”h.e.l.lo, Alton!”
They shook hands like old friends, while Alton Clyde continued to express his delight.
”So you've been roughing it out in Nebraska, eh?”
”Alaska.”
”So it was. I always get those places mixed. Come over and have a drink. I want to talk to you. Funny thing, I just met a Klondiker myself this evening. Great chap, too! I want you to know him: he's immense. Only watch out he don't get you full. He's an awful spender. I'm half kippered myself. His name is Froelich, but he isn't a Dutchman. Ever meet him up there?”
”I think not.”
”Come on, you'll like him.”
Clyde led his companion toward a table, chattering as they went. ”Y' know, I'm democratic myself, and I'm fond of these rough fellows. I'd like to go out to Nebraska--”
”Alaska.”
”--and punch cows and shoot a pistol and yell. I'm really tremendously rough. Here he is! Mr. Froelich, my old friend Mr. Emerson. We played football together--or, at least, he played; I was too light.”
Mr. Froelich shoved back his chair and turned, exposing the face of ”Fingerless” Fraser, quite expressionless save for the left eyelid, which drooped meaningly.
”'Froelich'!” said Boyd, angrily; ”good heavens, Fraser, have you picked another? I thought you were going to stick to 'Frobisher.'” Turning to Clyde, he observed: ”This man's name is Fraser. One of his peculiarities is a dislike of proper names. He has never found one that suited him.”
”I like 'Froelich' pretty well,” observed the imperturbable Fraser. ”It sounds distanguay, and--”
”Don't believe anything he tells you,” Boyd broke in, seating himself. ”He is the most circ.u.mstantial liar in the Northwest, and if you don't watch him every minute he will sell you a hydraulic mine, or a rubber plantation, or a sponge fishery. Underneath his eccentricities, however, he is really a pretty decent fellow, and I am indebted to him for my presence here to-night.”
Alton Clyde made his astonishment evident by inquiring incredulously of Fraser, ”Then that scheme of yours to establish a gas plant at Nome was all--”
”Certainly!” Emerson laughed. ”The incandescent lamp travels about as fast as the prospector. Nome is lighted by electricity, and has been for years.”
”_Is_ it?” demanded Fraser, with an a.s.sumption of the supremest surprise.
”You know as well as I do.”
”H'm! I'd forgotten. Just the same, my plan was a good one. Gas is cheaper.” He reached for his gla.s.s, at which Clyde's eye fell upon his missing fingers, and the young clubman exploded: