Part 27 (1/2)
Wallingford, grinning over the fatal defect in Fannie Bubble, looked back at the girl.
”She would make a Casino chorus look like a row of Hallowe'en confectionery junk,” he admitted.
”Fannie, come right in here and get supper!” shrilled a harsh voice, and in the doorway of the Bubble homestead they saw an overly-plump figure in a green silk dress.
”Gos.h.!.+” said Bob, and hit one of the little sorrel horses a vindictive clip. ”That's Fannie's stepmother. Jonas Bubble married his hired girl two years ago, and now they don't hire any. She makes Fannie do the work.”
CHAPTER XVIII
WALLINGFORD SPECULATES IN THE CHEAPEST REAL ESTATE PROCURABLE
That evening, after supper, Wallingford sat on one of the broad, cane-seated chairs in front of the Atlas Hotel, smoking a big, black cigar from his own private store, and watched the regular evening parade go by. They came, two by two, the girls of the village, up one side of Maple Street, pa.s.sed the Atlas Hotel, crossed over at the corner of the livery stable, went down past the Big Store and as far as the Campbellite church, where they crossed again and began a new round; and each time they pa.s.sed the Atlas Hotel they giggled, or they talked loudly, or pushed one another, or did something to enlarge themselves in the transient eye. The grocery drummer and the dry-goods salesman sat together, a little aloof from J. Rufus, and presently began saying flippant things to the girls as they pa.s.sed. A wake of giggles, after each such occasion, frothed across the street at the livery-stable corner, and down toward the Campbellite church.
Molly presently slipped out of the garden gate and went down Maple Street by herself. Within twenty minutes she, too, had joined the parade, and with her was Fannie Bubble. As these pa.s.sed the Atlas Hotel both the drummers got up.
”h.e.l.lo, Molly,” said the grocery drummer. ”I've been waiting for you since Hector was a pup,” and he caught her arm, while the dry-goods salesman advanced a little uncertainly.
”You 'tend to your own business, Joe Cling,” ordered Molly, jerking her arm away, but nevertheless giving an inquiring glance toward her companion. That rigid young lady, however, was looking straight ahead.
She was standing just in front of Wallingford.
”Come on,” coaxed the grocery drummer; ”I don't bite. Grab hold there on the other side, Billy.”
Miss Bubble, however, was still looking so uncompromisingly straight ahead that Billy hesitated, and the willing enough Molly, seeing that the conference had ”struck a snag,” took matters into her own vigorous hands again.
”You're too fresh,” she admonished the grocery drummer. ”Let go my arm, I tell you. Come on, Fannie,” and she flounced away with her companion, turning into the gate of the hotel garden. Miss Fannie cast back a curious glance, not at the grocery drummer nor the veteran dry-goods salesman, but at the quiet J. Rufus.
The discomfited transients gave short laughs of chagrin and went back to their seats, but the grocery drummer was too young to be daunted for long, and by the time another section or two of the giggling parade had pa.s.sed them he was ready for a second attempt. One couple, a tall, thin girl and a short, chubby one, who had now made the circuit three times, came sweeping past again, exchanging with each other hilarious persiflage which was calculated to attract and tempt.
”Wait a minute,” said the grocery drummer to his companion.
He dashed straight across the street, and under the shadow of the big elm intercepted the long and short couple. There was a parley in which the girls two or three times started to walk away, a further parley in which they consented to stand still, a loud male guffaw mingled with a succession of shrill giggles, then suddenly the grocery salesman called:
”Come on, Billy!”
The dry-goods man half rose from his chair and hesitated.
”Come on, Billy!” again invited the grocery drummer. ”We're going down to wade in the creek.”
A particularly high-pitched set of giggles followed this tremendous joke, and Billy, his timid scruples finally overcome, went across the street, a ridiculous figure with his ancient body and his youthful clothes. Nevertheless, Wallingford felt just a trifle lonesome as he watched his traveling companions of the afternoon go sauntering down the street in company which, if silly, was at least human. While he regretted Broadway, Bob Ranger, dressed no whit different from his attire of the afternoon, except that his sleeves were rolled down, came out of the hotel and stood for an undecided moment in front of the door.
”h.e.l.lo, Bob!” hailed Wallingford cordially, glad to see any face he knew. ”Do you smoke?”
”Reckon I do,” said Bob. ”I was thinkin' just this minute of walkin'
down to Bud Hegler's for some stogies.”
”Sit down and have a cigar,” offered Wallingford, producing a companion to the one he was then enjoying.
Bob took that cigar and smelled it; he measured its length, its weight, and felt its firmness.
”It ain't got any band on it, but I reckon that's a straight ten-center,” he opined.