Part 24 (1/2)

”Mr. Baker,” he said, simply, his eyes inscrutable.

”Well, Sunny, this is my old friend Bob Orde. Bob, this is the world-famous Sunny Larue, apostle of the Unlimited Life of whom you've heard so much.” He winked at Bob. ”How's the Colony flouris.h.i.+ng, Sunny?”

”More and more our people are growing to see the light,” said the mulatto in low, musical tones. ”The mighty but simple principles of Azamud are coming into their own. The poor and lowly, the humble and oppressed are learning that in me is their salvation--.” He went on in his beautiful voice explaining the Colony of the Unlimited Life, addressing always Bob directly and paying little attention to Baker, who stood aside, his hands in his pockets, a smile on his fat, good-natured face. It seemed that the Colony lived in tents in a canon of the foothills. It paid Larue fifty dollars a head, and in return was supported for six months and instructed in the mysteries of the cult. It had its regimen. ”At three we arise and break our fast, quite simply, with three or four dry prunes,” breathed Larue, ”and then, going forth to the high places for one hour, we hold steadfast the thought of Love.”

”Say, Sunny,” broke in Baker, ”how many you got rounded up now?”

”There are at present twenty-one earnest proselytes.”

”At fifty a head--and you've got to feed and keep 'em somehow--even three dried prunes cost you something in the long run”--ruminated Baker.

He turned briskly to the mulatto: ”Sunny, on the dead, where does the graft come in?”

The mulatto drew himself up in swift offence, scrutinized Bob closely for a moment, met Baker's grin. Abruptly his impressive manner dropped from him. He leaned toward them with a captivating flash of white teeth.

”_You just leave that to me_,” he murmured, and glided away into the crowd.

Baker laughed and drew Bob's arm within his own.

”Out of twenty of the faithful there's sure to be one or two with life savings stowed away in a sock, and Sunny's the boy to make them produce the sock.”

”What's his cult, anyway?” asked Bob. ”I mean, what do they pretend to believe? I couldn't make out.”

”A n.i.g.g.e.r's idea of Buddhism,” replied Baker briefly. ”But you can get any brand of psychic damfoolishness you think you need in your business.

They do it all, here, from going barefoot, eating nuts, swilling olive oil, rolling down hill, adoring the Limitless Whichness, and all the works. It is now,” he concluded, looking at his watch, ”about ten o'clock. We will finish the evening by dropping in on the Fuzzies.”

Together they boarded a street car, which shortly deposited them at an uptown corner. Large houses and s.p.a.cious grounds indicated a district of some wealth. To one of these houses, brilliantly lighted, Baker directed his steps.

”But I don't know these people, and I'm not properly dressed,” objected Bob.

”They know me. And as for dress, if you'd arrange to wear a chaste feather duster only, you'd make a hit.”

A roomful of people were buzzing like a hive. Most were in conventional evening dress. Here and there, however, Bob caught hints of masculine long hair, of feminine psyche knots, bandeaux and other extremely artistic but unusual departures. One man with his dinner jacket wore a soft linen s.h.i.+rt perforated by a Mexican drawn-work pattern beneath which glowed a bright red silk undergarment. Women's gowns on the flowing and Grecian order were not uncommon. These were usually coupled with the incongruity of parted hair brought low and madonna-wise over the ears. As the two entered, a very powerful blond man was just finis.h.i.+ng the declamation of a French poem. He was addressing it directly at two women seated on a sofa.

”_Un r-r-reve d'amour!_”

He concluded with much pa.s.sion and clasped hands.

In the rustle ensuing after this effort, Baker led his friend down the room to a very fat woman upholstered in pink satin, to whom he introduced Bob. Mrs. Annis, for such proved to be her name, welcomed him effusively.

”I've heard so much about you!” she cried vivaciously, to Bob's vast astonishment. She tapped him on the arm with her fan. ”I'm going to make a confession to you; I know it may be foolish, but I do like music so much better than I do pictures.”

Bob, his brain whirling, muttered something.

”But I'm going to confess to you again, I like artists so much better than I do musicians.”

A light dawned on Bob. ”But I'm not an artist nor a musician,” he blurted out.

The pink-upholstered lady, starting back with an agility remarkable in one of her size, clasped her hands.