Part 19 (1/2)
”Well, I don't know that I would say exactly a pig's tail,” he returned, bracketing his words with his most engaging smile, ”but I should say out of highly refractory material.”
His eyes in the meantime pried up her eyelids and asked what was wrong with that. And her eyes were coy about it, and would not answer directly.
He went on speaking: ”The whole labor trouble, it seems to me, lies in this whistle trade. A smattering of education has made labor dissatisfied. The laboring people are trying to get out of their place, and as a result we have strikes and lawlessness and disrespect for courts, and men going around and making trouble in industry by 'doing something for labor.'”
”Yes,” she replied, ”that is very true.”
But her eyes--her big, liquid, animal eyes were saying, ”How handsome you are--you man--you great, strong, masterful man with your brown ulster and brown hat and brown tie, and silken, black mustache.” To which his eyes replied, ”And you--you are superb, and such lips and such teeth,” while what he trusted to words was:
”Yes--I believe that the laborer in the mines, for instance, doesn't care so much about what we would consider hards.h.i.+p. It's natural to him.
It would be hard for us, but he gets used to it! Now, the smelter men in that heat and fumes--they don't seem to mind it. The agonizing is done largely by these red-mouthed agitators who never did a lick of work in their lives.”
Their elbows touched for a moment as they walked. He drew away politely and her eyes said:
”That's all right: I didn't mind that a bit.” But her lips said: ”That's what I tell Mr. Fenn, and, anyway, the work's got to be done and cultivated people can't do it. It's got to be done by the ignorant and coa.r.s.e and those kind of people.”
His eyes flinched a little at ”those kind” of people and she wondered what was wrong. But it was only for a moment that they flinched. Then they told her eyes how fine and desirable she looked, and she replied eyewise with a droop such as the old wolf might have used in replying to Red Riding Hood, ”The better to eat you, my child.” Then his voice spoke; his soft, false, vain, mushy voice, and asked casually: ”By the way, speaking of Mr. Fenn--how is Henry? I don't see him much now since he's quit the law and gone into real estate.”
His eyes asked plainly: Is everything all right in that quarter? Perhaps I might--
”Oh, I guess he's all right,” and her eyes said: That's so kind of you, indeed; perhaps you might--
But he went on: ”You ought to get him out more--come over some night and we'll make a hand at whist. Mrs. Van Dorn isn't much of a player, but like all poor players, she enjoys it.” And the eyes continued: But you and I will have a fine time--now please come--soon--very soon.
”Yes, indeed--I don't play so well, but we'll come,” and the eyes answered: That is a fair promise, and I'll be so happy. Then they flashed quickly: But Mrs. Van Dorn must arrange it. He replied: ”I'll tell Mrs. Van Dorn you like whist, and she and you can arrange the evening.”
Then they parted. He walked into the post office, and she walked on to the Wright & Perry store. But instead of returning to his office, he lounged into Mr. Brotherton's and sat on a bench in the Amen Corner, biting a cigar, waiting for traffic to clear out. Then he said: ”George, how is Henry Fenn doing--really?”
His soft, brown hat was tipped over his eyes and his ulster, unb.u.t.toned, displayed his fine figure, and he was clearly proud of it. Brotherton hesitated while he invoiced a row of books.
”Old trouble?” prompted Judge Van Dorn.
”Old trouble,” echoed Mr. Brotherton--”about every three months since he's been married; something terrible the last time. But say--there's a man that's sorry afterwards, and what he doesn't buy for her after a round with the joy-water isn't worth talking about. So far, he's been able to square her that way--I take it. But say--that'll wear off, and then--” Mr. Brotherton winked a large, mournful, devilish wink as one who was hanging out a storm flag. Judge Van Dorn twirled his mustache, patted his necktie, jostled his hat and smiled, waiting for further details. Instead, he faced a question:
”Why did Henry quit the law for real estate, Judge--the old trouble?”
Judge Van Dorn echoed, and added: ”Folks pretty generally know about it, and they don't trust their law business in that kind of hands. Poor Henry--poor devil,” sighed the young Judge, and then said: ”By the way, George, send up a box of cigars--the kind old Henry likes best, to my house. I'm going to have him and the missus over some evening.”
Mr. Brotherton's large back was turned when the last phrase was uttered, and Mr. Brotherton made a little significant face at his shelves, and the thought occurred to Mr. Brotherton that Henry Fenn was not the only man whom people pretty generally knew about. After some further talk about Fenn and his affairs, Van Dorn primped a moment before the mirror in the cigar cutter and started for the door.
”By the by, your honor, I forgot about the Mayor's miners' relief fund.
How is it now?” asked Van Dorn.
”Something past ten thousand here in the county.”
”Any one beat my subscription?” asked Van Dorn.
Brotherton turned around and replied: ”Yes--Amos Adams was in here five minutes ago. He has mortgaged his place and so long as he and Grant can't find kith or kin of Chopini, and Mrs. Herd.i.c.ker would take nothing--Amos has put $1,500 into the fund. Done it just now--him and Grant.”
The Judge took the paper, looked at the scrawl of the Adamses, and scratching out his subscription, put two thousand where there had been one thousand. He showed it to Brotherton, and added with a smile:
”Who'll call that--I wonder.”