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diff --git a/26732-h/26732-h.htm b/26732-h/26732-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..5d23736 --- /dev/null +++ b/26732-h/26732-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,12967 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of Free Air, by Sinclair Lewis + </title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + p {margin-top: .75em; text-align: justify; margin-bottom: .75em;} + h1,h2 {clear: both; font-weight: normal; line-height: 2;} + hr {width: 65%; margin: 2em auto; clear: both;} + .shr {width: 45%; margin: 1em auto; visibility: hidden;} + table {margin: 1em auto; font-size: 90%;} + .td1 {text-align: left; padding-right: 6em; padding-left: 1em;} + .rgt {text-align: right;} + body {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .pagenum {position: absolute; right: 1%; font-size: small; font-style: normal; text-align: right; text-indent: 0em;} + .blockquot {margin: 1em 10%;} + .blockquot p {margin-top: 0; margin-bottom: 0;} + .center,h1,h2,.p1,.p2,.hd1 {text-align: center;} + .smcap,.smcapl,.p2 {font-variant: small-caps;} + .smcapl {text-transform: lowercase;} + .figcenter {margin: 4em auto; width: 75px;} + .poem {margin: 0 auto; text-align: left; width: 19em;} + .poem br {display: none;} + .poem .stanza {margin: 1em 0em;} + .poem span.i0 {display: block; margin-left: 0em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .poem span.i2 {display: block; margin-left: 2em; padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;} + .trn {border: solid 1px; margin: 3em 15%; padding: 1em; text-align: justify;} + img {border: none;} + a:link, a:visited {text-decoration: none;} + p.cap:first-letter {float: left; margin-right: .05em; padding-top: .05em; font-size: 300%; line-height: .8em;} + .dcap {text-transform: uppercase;} + .bk1 {border: double 6px; width: 22em; margin: 1em auto; padding: 1em 0;} + .bk1 h2,.bk1 h1 {line-height: 1.5; margin-bottom: 1em;} + .hd1 {line-height: 1.5; font-size: large; margin-top: 1.5em;} + .fxl {font-size: xx-large;} + .bk3 {border-top: double 7px; border-bottom: double 7px; margin: 1em auto; width: 32em;} + .bk4 {border-top: double 3px;} + .p1 {font-size: small; font-weight: bold; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + .p2 {font-size: large; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + .sp1 {text-decoration: underline;} + .sp2 {margin-left: 3em;} + .bk5 {padding: .25em 0;} + .bk5 p {margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; font-size: small;} + .p3 {text-indent: 1em;} + .p4 {padding-left: 1em; text-indent: -1em;} + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Free Air, by Sinclair Lewis + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Free Air + +Author: Sinclair Lewis + +Release Date: September 30, 2008 [EBook #26732] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FREE AIR *** + + + + +Produced by K Nordquist, Stephen Blundell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<div class="bk1"><h1><big>FREE AIR</big></h1> + +<h2><small>BY</small><br /> +SINCLAIR LEWIS</h2> + +<p class="hd1"><small>AUTHOR OF</small><br /> +THE JOB, <span class="smcap">Etc</span>.</p> + +<div class="figcenter"> +<img src="images/001.png" width="75" height="68" alt="" title="" /> +</div> + +<p class="center"><span class="fxl"><small>GROSSET & DUNLAP</small></span><br /> +PUBLISHERS <span class="sp2">NEW YORK</span></p> +</div> + +<hr /> + +<p class="center"><small><span class="smcap">Copyright, 1919, by</span><br /> +HARCOURT, BRACE AND HOWE, <span class="smcap">Inc.</span></small></p> + +<hr /> +<h2>CONTENTS</h2> + +<div class='center'> +<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary=""> +<tr><td class="rgt"><small>CHAPTER</small></td><td class="rgt" colspan="2"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> +<tr><td class="rgt">I</td><td class="td1">MISS BOLTWOOD OF BROOKLYN IS LOST IN THE MUD</td><td class="rgt"><a href="#Page_3">3</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="rgt">II</td><td class="td1">CLAIRE ESCAPES FROM RESPECTABILITY</td><td class="rgt"><a href="#Page_10">10</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="rgt">III</td><td class="td1">A YOUNG MAN IN A RAINCOAT</td><td class="rgt"><a href="#Page_21">21</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="rgt">IV</td><td class="td1">A ROOM WITHOUT</td><td class="rgt"><a href="#Page_36">36</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="rgt">V</td><td class="td1">RELEASE BRAKES—SHIFT TO THIRD</td><td class="rgt"><a href="#Page_49">49</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="rgt">VI</td><td class="td1">THE LAND OF BILLOWING CLOUDS</td><td class="rgt"><a href="#Page_66">66</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="rgt">VII</td><td class="td1">THE GREAT AMERICAN FRYING PAN</td><td class="rgt"><a href="#Page_74">74</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="rgt">VIII</td><td class="td1">THE DISCOVERY OF CANNED SHRIMPS AND HESPERIDES</td><td class="rgt"><a href="#Page_85">85</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="rgt">IX</td><td class="td1">THE MAN WITH AGATE EYES</td><td class="rgt"><a href="#Page_101">101</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="rgt">X</td><td class="td1">THE CURIOUS INCIDENT OF THE HILLSIDE ROAD</td><td class="rgt"><a href="#Page_112">112</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="rgt">XI</td><td class="td1">SAGEBRUSH TOURISTS OF THE GREAT HIGHWAY</td><td class="rgt"><a href="#Page_119">119</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="rgt">XII</td><td class="td1">THE WONDERS OF NATURE WITH ALL MODERN IMPROVEMENTS</td><td class="rgt"><a href="#Page_129">129</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="rgt">XIII</td><td class="td1">ADVENTURERS BY FIRELIGHT</td><td class="rgt"><a href="#Page_138">138</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="rgt">XIV</td><td class="td1">THE BEAST OF THE CORRAL</td><td class="rgt"><a href="#Page_149">149</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="rgt">XV</td><td class="td1">THE BLACK DAY OF THE VOYAGE</td><td class="rgt"><a href="#Page_154">154</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="rgt">XVI</td><td class="td1">THE SPECTACLES OF AUTHORITY</td><td class="rgt"><a href="#Page_165">165</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="rgt">XVII</td><td class="td1">THE VAGABOND IN GREEN</td><td class="rgt"><a href="#Page_176">176</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="rgt">XVIII</td><td class="td1">THE FALLACY OF ROMANCE</td><td class="rgt"><a href="#Page_188">188</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="rgt">XIX</td><td class="td1">THE NIGHT OF ENDLESS PINES</td><td class="rgt"><a href="#Page_194">194</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="rgt">XX</td><td class="td1">THE FREE WOMAN</td><td class="rgt"><a href="#Page_205">205</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="rgt">XXI</td><td class="td1">THE MINE OF LOST SOULS</td><td class="rgt"><a href="#Page_219">219</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="rgt">XXII</td><td class="td1">ACROSS THE ROOF OF THE WORLD</td><td class="rgt"><a href="#Page_228">228</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="rgt">XXIII</td><td class="td1">THE GRAEL IN A BACK YARD IN YAKIMA</td><td class="rgt"><a href="#Page_237">237</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="rgt">XXIV</td><td class="td1">HER OWN PEOPLE</td><td class="rgt"><a href="#Page_242">242</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="rgt">XXV</td><td class="td1">THE ABYSSINIAN PRINCE</td><td class="rgt"><a href="#Page_254">254</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="rgt">XXVI</td><td class="td1">A CLASS IN ENGINEERING AND OMELETS</td><td class="rgt"><a href="#Page_270">270</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="rgt">XXVII</td><td class="td1">THE VICIOUSNESS OF NICE THINGS</td><td class="rgt"><a href="#Page_279">279</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="rgt">XXVIII</td><td class="td1">THE MORNING COAT OF MR. HUDSON B. RIGGS</td><td class="rgt"><a href="#Page_290">290</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="rgt">XXIX</td><td class="td1">THE ENEMY LOVE</td><td class="rgt"><a href="#Page_300">300</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="rgt">XXX</td><td class="td1">THE VIRTUOUS PLOTTERS</td><td class="rgt"><a href="#Page_307">307</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="rgt">XXXI</td><td class="td1">THE KITCHEN INTIMATE</td><td class="rgt"><a href="#Page_310">310</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="rgt">XXXII</td><td class="td1">THE CORNFIELD ARISTOCRAT</td><td class="rgt"><a href="#Page_331">331</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="rgt">XXXIII</td><td class="td1">TOOTH-MUG TEA</td><td class="rgt"><a href="#Page_345">345</a></td></tr> +<tr><td class="rgt">XXXIV</td><td class="td1">THE BEGINNING OF A STORY</td><td class="rgt"><a href="#Page_361">361</a></td></tr> +</table></div> + +<hr /> +<h1>FREE AIR</h1> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span></p> +<h1>FREE AIR</h1> + +<h2>CHAPTER I<br /> +MISS BOLTWOOD OF BROOKLYN IS LOST IN THE MUD</h2> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">When</span> the windshield was closed it became so +filmed with rain that Claire fancied she was +piloting a drowned car in dim spaces under the sea. +When it was open, drops jabbed into her eyes and +chilled her cheeks. She was excited and thoroughly +miserable. She realized that these Minnesota country +roads had no respect for her polite experience on Long +Island parkways. She felt like a woman, not like a +driver.</p> + +<p>But the Gomez-Dep roadster had seventy horsepower, +and sang songs. Since she had left Minneapolis +nothing had passed her. Back yonder a truck +had tried to crowd her, and she had dropped into a +ditch, climbed a bank, returned to the road, and after +that the truck was not. Now she was regarding a +view more splendid than mountains above a garden +by the sea—a stretch of good road. To her passenger, +her father, Claire chanted:</p> + +<p>"Heavenly! There's some gravel. We can make +time. We'll hustle on to the next town and get dry."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span>"Yes. But don't mind me. You're doing very +well," her father sighed.</p> + +<p>Instantly, the dismay of it rushing at her, she saw +the end of the patch of gravel. The road ahead was +a wet black smear, criss-crossed with ruts. The car +shot into a morass of prairie gumbo—which is mud +mixed with tar, fly-paper, fish glue, and well-chewed, +chocolate-covered caramels. When cattle get into +gumbo, the farmers send for the stump-dynamite and +try blasting.</p> + +<p>It was her first really bad stretch of road. She +was frightened. Then she was too appallingly busy +to be frightened, or to be Miss Claire Boltwood, or +to comfort her uneasy father. She had to drive. +Her frail graceful arms put into it a vicious vigor +that was genius.</p> + +<p>When the wheels struck the slime, they slid, they +wallowed. The car skidded. It was terrifyingly out +of control. It began majestically to turn toward the +ditch. She fought the steering wheel as though she +were shadow-boxing, but the car kept contemptuously +staggering till it was sideways, straight across the +road. Somehow, it was back again, eating into a +rut, going ahead. She didn't know how she had +done it, but she had got it back. She longed to take +time to retrace her own cleverness in steering. She +didn't. She kept going.</p> + +<p>The car backfired, slowed. She yanked the gear +<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span>from third into first. She sped up. The motor ran +like a terrified pounding heart, while the car crept +on by inches through filthy mud that stretched ahead +of her without relief.</p> + +<p>She was battling to hold the car in the principal +rut. She snatched the windshield open, and concentrated +on that left rut. She felt that she was keeping +the wheel from climbing those high sides of the rut, +those six-inch walls of mud, sparkling with tiny grits. +Her mind snarled at her arms, "Let the ruts do the +steering. You're just fighting against them." It +worked. Once she let the wheels alone they comfortably +followed the furrows, and for three seconds +she had that delightful belief of every motorist after +every mishap, "Now that this particular disagreeableness +is over, I'll never, never have any trouble again!"</p> + +<p>But suppose the engine overheated, ran out of +water? Anxiety twanged at her nerves. And the deep +distinctive ruts were changing to a complex pattern, +like the rails in a city switchyard. She picked out +the track of the one motor car that had been through +here recently. It was marked with the swastika tread +of the rear tires. That track was her friend; she +knew and loved the driver of a car she had never seen +in her life.</p> + +<p>She was very tired. She wondered if she might +not stop for a moment. Then she came to an upslope. +The car faltered; felt indecisive beneath her. She<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span> +jabbed down the accelerator. Her hands pushed at +the steering wheel as though she were pushing the +car. The engine picked up, sulkily kept going. To +the eye, there was merely a rise in the rolling ground, +but to her anxiety it was a mountain up which she—not +the engine, but herself—pulled this bulky mass, +till she had reached the top, and was safe again—for a +second. Still there was no visible end of the mud.</p> + +<p>In alarm she thought, "How long does it last? I +can't keep this up. I—Oh!"</p> + +<p>The guiding tread of the previous car was suddenly +lost in a mass of heaving, bubble-scattered mud, like +a batter of black dough. She fairly picked up the car, +and flung it into that welter, through it, and back into +the reappearing swastika-marked trail.</p> + +<p>Her father spoke: "You're biting your lips. They'll +bleed, if you don't look out. Better stop and rest."</p> + +<p>"Can't! No bottom to this mud. Once stop and +lose momentum—stuck for keeps!"</p> + +<p>She had ten more minutes of it before she reached +a combination of bridge and culvert, with a plank platform +above a big tile drain. With this solid plank +bottom, she could stop. Silence came roaring down as +she turned the switch. The bubbling water in the +radiator steamed about the cap. Claire was conscious +of tautness of the cords of her neck in front; of a pain +at the base of her brain. Her father glanced at her +curiously. "I must be a wreck. I'm sure my hair<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span> +is frightful," she thought, but forgot it as she looked +at him. His face was unusually pale. In the tumult +of activity he had been betrayed into letting the old +despondent look blur his eyes and sag his mouth. +"Must get on," she determined.</p> + +<p>Claire was dainty of habit. She detested untwisted +hair, ripped gloves, muddy shoes. Hesitant as a cat +by a puddle, she stepped down on the bridge. Even on +these planks, the mud was three inches thick. It +squidged about her low, spatted shoes. "Eeh!" she +squeaked.</p> + +<p>She tiptoed to the tool-box and took out a folding +canvas bucket. She edged down to the trickling stream +below. She was miserably conscious of a pastoral +scene all gone to mildew—cows beneath willows by +the creek, milkweeds dripping, dried mullein weed +stalks no longer dry. The bank of the stream was so +slippery that she shot down two feet, and nearly went +sprawling. Her knee did touch the bank, and the +skirt of her gray sports-suit showed a smear of yellow +earth.</p> + +<p>In less than two miles the racing motor had used +up so much water that she had to make four trips to +the creek before she had filled the radiator. When she +had climbed back on the running-board she glared +down at spats and shoes turned into gray lumps. She +was not tearful. She was angry.</p> + +<p>"Idiot! Ought to have put on my rubbers. Well—too<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span> +late now," she observed, as she started the +engine.</p> + +<p>She again followed the swastika tread. To avoid +a hole in the road ahead, the unknown driver had +swung over to the side of the road, and taken to the +intensely black earth of the edge of an unfenced cornfield. +Flashing at Claire came the sight of a deep, +water-filled hole, scattered straw and brush, débris of +a battlefield, which made her gaspingly realize that her +swastikaed leader had been stuck and—</p> + +<p>And instantly her own car was stuck.</p> + +<p>She had had to put the car at that hole. It dropped, +far down, and it stayed down. The engine stalled. +She started it, but the back wheels spun merrily round +and round, without traction. She did not make one +inch. When she again killed the blatting motor, she +let it stay dead. She peered at her father.</p> + +<p>He was not a father, just now, but a passenger trying +not to irritate the driver. He smiled in a waxy +way, and said, "Hard luck! Well, you did the best +you could. The other hole, there in the road, would +have been just as bad. You're a fine driver, dolly."</p> + +<p>Her smile was warm and real. "No. I'm a fool. +You told me to put on chains. I didn't. I deserve it."</p> + +<p>"Well, anyway, most men would be cussing. You +acquire merit by not beating me. I believe that's +done, in moments like this. If you'd like, I'll get out +and crawl around in the mud, and play turtle for you."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span>"No. I'm quite all right. I did feel frightfully +strong-minded as long as there was any use of it. It +kept me going. But now I might just as well be +cheerful, because we're stuck, and we're probably going +to stay stuck for the rest of this care-free summer +day."</p> + +<p>The weariness of the long strain caught her, all at +once. She slipped forward, sat huddled, her knees +crossed under the edge of the steering wheel, her +hands falling beside her, one of them making a faint +brushing sound as it slid down the upholstery. Her +eyes closed; as her head drooped farther, she fancied +she could hear the vertebrae click in her tense neck.</p> + +<p>Her father was silent, a misty figure in a lap-robe. +The rain streaked the mica lights in the side-curtains. +A distant train whistled desolately across the sodden +fields. The inside of the car smelled musty. The +quiet was like a blanket over the ears. Claire was in +a hazy drowse. She felt that she could never drive +again.</p> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER II<br /> +CLAIRE ESCAPES FROM RESPECTABILITY</h2> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">Claire Boltwood</span> lived on the Heights, +Brooklyn. Persons from New York and other +parts of the Middlewest have been known to believe +that Brooklyn is somehow humorous. In newspaper +jokes and vaudeville it is so presented that people +who are willing to take their philosophy from those +sources believe that the leading citizens of Brooklyn +are all deacons, undertakers, and obstetricians. The +fact is that North Washington Square, at its reddest +and whitest and fanlightedest, Gramercy Park at its +most ivied, are not so aristocratic as the section of +Brooklyn called the Heights. Here preached Henry +Ward Beecher. Here, in mansions like mausoleums, +on the ridge above docks where the good ships came +sailing in from Sourabaya and Singapore, ruled the +lords of a thousand sails. And still is it a place of +wealth too solid to emulate the nimble self-advertising +of Fifth Avenue. Here dwell the fifth-generation +possessors of blocks of foundries and shipyards. +Here, in a big brick house of much dignity, much +ugliness, and much conservatory, lived Claire Boltwood, +with her widower father.</p> + +<p>Henry B. Boltwood was vice-president of a firm<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span> +dealing in railway supplies. He was neither wealthy +nor at all poor. Every summer, despite Claire's delicate +hints, they took the same cottage on the Jersey +Coast, and Mr. Boltwood came down for Sunday. +Claire had gone to a good school out of Philadelphia, +on the Main Line. She was used to gracious leisure, +attractive uselessness, nut-center chocolates, and a +certain wonder as to why she was alive.</p> + +<p>She wanted to travel, but her father could not get +away. He consistently spent his days in overworking, +and his evenings in wishing he hadn't overworked. +He was attractive, fresh, pink-cheeked, white-mustached, +and nerve-twitching with years of detail.</p> + +<p>Claire's ambition had once been babies and a solid +husband, but as various young males of the species +appeared before her, sang their mating songs and +preened their newly dry-cleaned plumage, she found +that the trouble with solid young men was that they +were solid. Though she liked to dance, the "dancing +men" bored her. And she did not understand the +district's quota of intellectuals very well; she was +good at listening to symphony concerts, but she never +had much luck in discussing the cleverness of the +wood winds in taking up the main motif. It is history +that she refused a master of arts with an old violin, +a good taste in ties, and an income of eight thousand.</p> + +<p>The only man who disturbed her was Geoffrey +Saxton, known throughout the interwoven sets of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span> +Brooklyn Heights as "Jeff." Jeff Saxton was thirty-nine +to Claire's twenty-three. He was clean and +busy; he had no signs of vice or humor. Especially +for Jeff must have been invented the symbolic morning +coat, the unwrinkable gray trousers, and the moral +rimless spectacles. He was a graduate of a nice college, +and he had a nice tenor and a nice family and +nice hands and he was nicely successful in New York +copper dealing. When he was asked questions by +people who were impertinent, clever, or poor, Jeff +looked them over coldly before he answered, and often +they felt so uncomfortable that he didn't have to +answer.</p> + +<p>The boys of Claire's own age, not long out of Yale +and Princeton, doing well in business and jumping for +their evening clothes daily at six-thirty, light o' loves +and admirers of athletic heroes, these lads Claire +found pleasant, but hard to tell apart. She didn't +have to tell Jeff Saxton apart. He did his own telling. +Jeff called—not too often. He sang—not too sentimentally. +He took her father and herself to the +theater—not too lavishly. He told Claire—in a voice +not too serious—that she was his helmed Athena, his +rose of all the world. He informed her of his substantial +position—not too obviously. And he was so +everlastingly, firmly, quietly, politely, immovably +always there.</p> + +<p>She watched the hulk of marriage drifting down<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span> +on her frail speed-boat of aspiration, and steered in +desperate circles.</p> + +<p>Then her father got the nervous prostration he had +richly earned. The doctor ordered rest. Claire took +him in charge. He didn't want to travel. Certainly +he didn't want the shore or the Adirondacks. As +there was a branch of his company in Minneapolis, she +lured him that far away.</p> + +<p>Being rootedly of Brooklyn Heights, Claire didn't +know much about the West. She thought that Milwaukee +was the capital of Minnesota. She was not so +uninformed as some of her friends, however. She had +heard that in Dakota wheat was to be viewed in vast +tracts—maybe a hundred acres.</p> + +<p>Mr. Boltwood could not be coaxed to play with the +people to whom his Minneapolis representative introduced +him. He was overworking again, and perfectly +happy. He was hoping to find something wrong with +the branch house. Claire tried to tempt him out to +the lakes. She failed. His nerve-fuse burnt out the +second time, with much fireworks.</p> + +<p>Claire had often managed her circle of girls, but it +had never occurred to her to manage her executive +father save by indirect and pretty teasing. Now, in +conspiracy with the doctor, she bullied her father. +He saw gray death waiting as alternative, and he was +meek. He agreed to everything. He consented to +drive with her across two thousand miles of plains<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span> +and mountains to Seattle, to drop in for a call on their +cousins, the Eugene Gilsons.</p> + +<p>Back East they had a chauffeur and two cars—the +limousine, and the Gomez-Deperdussin roadster, +Claire's beloved. It would, she believed, be more of a +change from everything that might whisper to Mr. +Boltwood of the control of men, not to take a chauffeur. +Her father never drove, but she could, she insisted. +His easy agreeing was pathetic. He watched +her with spaniel eyes. They had the Gomez roadster +shipped to them from New York.</p> + +<p>On a July morning, they started out of Minneapolis +in a mist, and as it has been hinted, they stopped sixty +miles northward, in a rain, also in much gumbo. Apparently +their nearest approach to the Pacific Ocean +would be this oceanically moist edge of a cornfield, +between Schoenstrom and Gopher Prairie, Minnesota.</p> + +<hr class="shr" /> + +<p>Claire roused from her damp doze and sighed, +"Well, I must get busy and get the car out of this."</p> + +<p>"Don't you think you'd better get somebody to +help us?"</p> + +<p>"But get who?"</p> + +<p>"Whom!"</p> + +<p>"No! It's just 'who,' when you're in the mud. +No. One of the good things about an adventure like +this is that I must do things for myself. I've always +had people to do things for me. Maids and nice<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span> +teachers and you, old darling! I suppose it's made +me soft. Soft—I would like a soft davenport and +a novel and a pound of almond-brittle, and get all sick, +and not feel so beastly virile as I do just now. +But——"</p> + +<p>She turned up the collar of her gray tweed coat, +painfully climbed out—the muscles of her back racking—and +examined the state of the rear wheels. +They were buried to the axle; in front of them the +mud bulked in solid, shiny blackness. She took out +her jack and chains. It was too late. There was no +room to get the jack under the axle. She remembered +from the narratives of motoring friends that brush +in mud gave a firmer surface for the wheels to climb +upon.</p> + +<p>She also remembered how jolly and agreeably +heroic the accounts of their mishaps had sounded—a +week after they were over.</p> + +<p>She waded down the road toward an old wood-lot. +At first she tried to keep dry, but she gave it up, and +there was pleasure in being defiantly dirty. She +tramped straight through puddles; she wallowed in +mud. In the wood-lot was long grass which soaked +her stockings till her ankles felt itchy. Claire had +never expected to be so very intimate with a brush-pile. +She became so. As though she were a pioneer +woman who had been toiling here for years, she came +to know the brush stick by stick—the long valuable<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span> +branch that she could never quite get out from under +the others; the thorny bough that pricked her hands +every time she tried to reach the curious bundle of +switches.</p> + +<p>Seven trips she made, carrying armfuls of twigs +and solemnly dragging large boughs behind her. She +patted them down in front of all four wheels. Her +crisp hands looked like the paws of a three-year-old +boy making a mud fort. Her nails hurt from the mud +wedged beneath them. Her mud-caked shoes were +heavy to lift. It was with exquisite self-approval that +she sat on the running-board, scraped a car-load of +lignite off her soles, climbed back into the car, punched +the starter.</p> + +<p>The car stirred, crept forward one inch, and settled +back—one inch. The second time it heaved encouragingly +but did not make quite so much headway. +Then Claire did sob.</p> + +<p>She rubbed her cheek against the comfortable, +rough, heather-smelling shoulder of her father's coat, +while he patted her and smiled, "Good girl! I better +get out and help."</p> + +<p>She sat straight, shook her head. "Nope. I'll do +it. And I'm not going to insist on being heroic any +longer. I'll get a farmer to pull us out."</p> + +<p>As she let herself down into the ooze, she reflected +that all farmers have hearts of gold, anatomical +phenomena never found among the snobs and hirelings<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span> +of New York. The nearest heart of gold was presumably +beating warmly in the house a quarter of a +mile ahead.</p> + +<p>She came up a muddy lane to a muddy farmyard, +with a muddy cur yapping at her wet legs, and geese +hissing in a pool of purest mud serene. The house +was small and rather old. It may have been painted +once. The barn was large and new. It had been +painted very much, and in a blinding red with white +trimmings. There was no brass plate on the house, +but on the barn, in huge white letters, was the legend, +"Adolph Zolzac, 1913."</p> + +<p>She climbed by log steps to a narrow frame back +porch littered with parts of a broken cream-separator. +She told herself that she was simple and friendly in +going to the back door instead of the front, and it was +with gaiety that she knocked on the ill-jointed screen +door, which flapped dismally in response.</p> + +<p>"<i>Ja?</i>" from within.</p> + +<p>She rapped again.</p> + +<p>"<i>Hinein!</i>"</p> + +<p>She opened the door on a kitchen, the highlight of +which was a table heaped with dishes of dumplings +and salt pork. A shirt-sleeved man, all covered with +mustache and calm, sat by the table, and he kept right +on sitting as he inquired:</p> + +<p>"Vell?"</p> + +<p>"My car—my automobile—has been stuck in the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span> +mud. A bad driver, I'm afraid! I wonder if you +would be so good as to——"</p> + +<p>"I usually get t'ree dollars, but I dunno as I vant +to do it for less than four. Today I ain'd feelin' very +goot," grumbled the golden-hearted.</p> + +<p>Claire was aware that a woman whom she had not +noticed—so much smaller than the dumplings, so much +less vigorous than the salt pork was she—was speaking: +"<i>Aber</i>, papa, dot's a shame you sharge de poor +young lady dot, when she drive by <i>sei</i> self. Vot she +t'ink of de Sherman people?"</p> + +<p>The farmer merely grunted. To Claire, "Yuh, +four dollars. Dot's what I usually charge sometimes."</p> + +<p>"Usually? Do you mean to say that you leave +that hole there in the road right along—that people +keep on trying to avoid it and get stuck as I was? +Oh! If I were an official——"</p> + +<p>"Vell, I dunno, I don't guess I run my place to +suit you smart alecks——"</p> + +<p>"Papa! How you talk on the young lady! Make +shame!"</p> + +<p>"—from the city. If you don't like it, you stay +<i>bei</i> Mineapolis! I haul you out for t'ree dollars and +a half. Everybody pay dot. Last mont' I make forty-five +dollars. They vos all glad to pay. They say I +help them fine. I don't see vot you're kickin' about! +Oh, these vimmins!"</p> + +<p>"It's blackmail! I wouldn't pay it, if it weren't<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span> +for my father sitting waiting out there. But—go +ahead. Hurry!"</p> + +<p>She sat tapping her toe while Zolzac completed the +stertorous task of hogging the dumplings, then +stretched, yawned, scratched, and covered his merely +dirty garments with overalls that were apparently +woven of processed mud. When he had gone to the +barn for his team, his wife came to Claire. On her +drained face were the easy tears of the slave women.</p> + +<p>"Oh, miss, I don't know vot I should do. My boys +go on the public school, and they speak American just +so goot as you. Oh, I vant man lets me luff America. +But papa he says it is an <i>Unsinn</i>; you got the money, +he says, nobody should care if you are American or +Old Country people. I should vish I could ride once +in an automobile! But—I am so 'shamed, so 'shamed +that I must sit and see my <i>Mann</i> make this. Forty +years I been married to him, and pretty soon I +die——"</p> + +<p>Claire patted her hand. There was nothing to say +to tragedy that had outlived hope.</p> + +<p>Adolph Zolzac clumped out to the highroad behind +his vast, rolling-flanked horses—so much cleaner and +better fed than his wisp of a wife. Claire followed +him, and in her heart she committed murder and was +glad of it. While Mr. Boltwood looked out with mild +wonder at Claire's new friend, Zolzac hitched his team +to the axle. It did not seem possible that two horses<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span> +could pull out the car where seventy horsepower had +fainted. But, easily, yawning and thinking about dinner, +the horses drew the wheels up on the mud-bank, +out of the hole and——</p> + +<p>The harness broke, with a flying mess of straps and +rope, and the car plumped with perfect exactness back +into its bed.</p> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER III<br /> +A YOUNG MAN IN A RAINCOAT</h2> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">"Huh</span>! Such an auto! Look, it break my harness +a'ready! Two dollar that cost you to +mend it. De auto iss too heavy!" stormed Zolzac.</p> + +<p>"All right! All right! Only for heaven's sake—go +get another harness!" Claire shrieked.</p> + +<p>"Fife-fifty dot will be, in all." Zolzac grinned.</p> + +<p>Claire was standing in front of him. She was +thinking of other drivers, poor people, in old cars, +who had been at the mercy of this golden-hearted one. +She stared past him, in the direction from which she +had come. Another motor was in sight.</p> + +<p>It was a tin beetle of a car; that agile, cheerful, rut-jumping +model known as a "bug"; with a home-tacked, +home-painted tin cowl and tail covering the +stripped chassis of a little cheap Teal car. The lone +driver wore an old black raincoat with an atrocious +corduroy collar, and a new plaid cap in the Harry +Lauder tartan. The bug skipped through mud where +the Boltwoods' Gomez had slogged and rolled. Its +pilot drove up behind her car, and leaped out. He +trotted forward to Claire and Zolzac. His eyes were +twenty-seven or eight, but his pink cheeks were twenty,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span> +and when he smiled—shyly, radiantly—he was no age +at all, but eternal boy. Claire had a blurred impression +that she had seen him before, some place along +the road.</p> + +<p>"Stuck?" he inquired, not very intelligently. +"How much is Adolph charging you?"</p> + +<p>"He wants three-fifty, and his harness broke, and +he wants two dollars——"</p> + +<p>"Oh! So he's still working that old gag! I've +heard all about Adolph. He keeps that harness for +pulling out cars, and it always busts. The last time, +though, he only charged six bits to get it mended. +Now let me reason with him."</p> + +<p>The young man turned with vicious quickness, and +for the first time Claire heard pidgin German—German +as it is spoken between Americans who have +never learned it, and Germans who have forgotten it:</p> + +<p>"<i>Schon sex</i> hundred times <i>Ich höre</i> all about the +way you been doing autos, Zolzac, you <i>verfluchter +Schweinhund</i>, and I'll set the sheriff on you——"</p> + +<p>"Dot ain'd true, maybe <i>einmal die Woche kommt</i> +somebody and <i>Ich muss die Arbeit immer lassen und +in die Regen ausgehen, und seh' mal</i> how <i>die</i> boots +<i>sint mit</i> mud covered, two dollars it don't pay for <i>die</i> +boots——"</p> + +<p>"Now that's enough-plenty out of you, <i>seien die</i> +boots <i>verdammt</i>, and <i>mach' dass du fort gehst</i>—muddy +boots, hell!—put <i>mal ein</i> egg in <i>die</i> boots and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span> +beat it, <i>verleicht</i> maybe I'll by golly arrest you myself, +<i>weiss du</i>! I'm a special deputy sheriff."</p> + +<p>The young man stood stockily. He seemed to +swell as his somewhat muddy hand was shaken directly +at, under, and about the circumference of, Adolph +Zolzac's hairy nose. The farmer was stronger, but +he retreated. He took up the reins. He whined, +"Don't I get nothing I break de harness?"</p> + +<p>"Sure. You get ten—years! And you get out!"</p> + +<p>From thirty yards up the road, Zolzac flung back, +"You t'ink you're pretty damn smart!" That was +his last serious reprisal.</p> + +<p>Clumsily, as one not used to it, the young man +lifted his cap to Claire, showing straight, wiry, rope-colored +hair, brushed straight back from a rather fine +forehead. "Gee, I was sorry to have to swear and +holler like that, but it's all Adolph understands. +Please don't think there's many of the folks around +here like him. They say he's the meanest man in the +county."</p> + +<p>"I'm immensely grateful to you, but—do you know +much about motors? How can I get out of this +mud?"</p> + +<p>She was surprised to see the youngster blush. His +clear skin flooded. His engaging smile came again, +and he hesitated, "Let me pull you out."</p> + +<p>She looked from her hulking car to his mechanical +flea.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span>He answered the look: "I can do it all right. I'm +used to the gumbo—regular mud-hen. Just add my +power to yours. Have you a tow-rope?"</p> + +<p>"No. I never thought of bringing one."</p> + +<p>"I'll get mine."</p> + +<p>She walked with him back toward his bug. It +lacked not only top and side-curtains, but even windshield +and running-board. It was a toy—a card-board +box on toothpick axles. Strapped to the bulging back +was a wicker suitcase partly covered by tarpaulin. +From the seat peered a little furry face.</p> + +<p>"A cat?" she exclaimed, as he came up with a +wire rope, extracted from the tin back.</p> + +<p>"Yes. She's the captain of the boat. I'm just the +engineer."</p> + +<p>"What is her name?"</p> + +<p>Before he answered the young man strode ahead to +the front of her car, Claire obediently trotting after +him. He stooped to look at her front axle. He +raised his head, glanced at her, and he was blushing again.</p> + +<p>"Her name is Vere de Vere!" he confessed. Then +he fled back to his bug. He drove it in front of the +Gomez-Dep. The hole in the road itself was as deep +as the one on the edge of the cornfield, where she +was stuck, but he charged it. She was fascinated by +his skill. Where she would for a tenth of a second +have hesitated while choosing the best course, he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span> +hurled the bug straight at the hole, plunged through +with sheets of glassy black water arching on either +side, then viciously twisted the car to the right, to +the left, and straight again, as he followed the tracks +with the solidest bottoms.</p> + +<p>Strapped above the tiny angle-iron step which replaced +his running-board was an old spade. He dug +channels in front of the four wheels of her car, so +that they might go up inclines, instead of pushing +against the straight walls of mud they had thrown up. +On these inclines he strewed the brush she had brought, +halting to ask, with head alertly lifted from his +stooped huddle in the mud, "Did you have to get this +brush yourself?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. Horrid wet!"</p> + +<p>He merely shook his head in commiseration.</p> + +<p>He fastened the tow-rope to the rear axle of his +car, to the front of hers. "Now will you be ready to +put on all your power as I begin to pull?" he said +casually, rather respectfully.</p> + +<p>When the struggling bug had pulled the wire rope +taut, she opened the throttle. The rope trembled. Her +car seemed to draw sullenly back. Then it came out—out—really +out, which is the most joyous sensation +any motorist shall ever know. In excitement over +actually moving again, as fast as any healthy young +snail, she drove on, on, the young man ahead grinning +back at her. Nor did she stop, nor he, till both cars<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span> +were safe on merely thick mud, a quarter of a mile +away.</p> + +<p>She switched off the power—and suddenly she was +in a whirlwind of dizzy sickening tiredness. Even +in her abandonment to exhaustion she noticed that the +young man did not stare at her but, keeping his back +to her, removed the tow-rope, and stowed it away in +his bug. She wondered whether it was tact or yokelish +indifference.</p> + +<p>Her father spoke for the first time since the Galahad +of the tin bug had come: "How much do you think +we ought to give this fellow?"</p> + +<p>Now of all the cosmic problems yet unsolved, not +cancer nor the future of poverty are the flustering +questions, but these twain: Which is worse, not to +wear evening clothes at a party at which you find +every one else dressed, or to come in evening clothes +to a house where, it proves, they are never worn? +And: Which is worse, not to tip when a tip has been +expected; or to tip, when the tip is an insult?</p> + +<p>In discomfort of spirit and wetness of ankles Claire +shuddered, "Oh dear, I don't believe he expects us +to pay him. He seems like an awfully independent +person. Maybe we'd offend him if we offered——"</p> + +<p>"The only reasonable thing to be offended at in this +vale of tears is not being offered money!"</p> + +<p>"Just the same—— Oh dear, I'm so tired. But +good little Claire will climb out and be diplomatic."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span>She pinched her forehead, to hold in her cracking +brain, and wabbled out into new scenes of mud and +wetness, but she came up to the young man with the +most rain-washed and careless of smiles. "Won't +you come back and meet my father? He's terribly +grateful to you—as I am. And may we—— You've +worked so hard, and about saved our lives. May I +pay you for that labor? We're really much indebted——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, it wasn't anything. Tickled to death if I +could help you."</p> + +<p>He heartily shook hands with her father, and he +droned, "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Uh."</p> + +<p>"Boltwood."</p> + +<p>"Mr. Boltwood. My name is Milt—Milton Daggett. +See you have a New York license on your car. +We don't see but mighty few of those through here. +Glad I could help you."</p> + +<p>"Ah yes, Mr. Daggett." Mr. Boltwood was uninterestedly +fumbling in his money pocket. Behind +Milt Daggett, Claire shook her head wildly, rattling +her hands as though she were playing castanets. Mr. +Boltwood shrugged. He did not understand. His +relations with young men in cheap raincoats were +entirely monetary. They did something for you, and +you paid them—preferably not too much—and they +ceased to be. Whereas Milt Daggett respectfully but +stolidly continued to be, and Mr. Henry Boltwood's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span> +own daughter was halting the march of affairs by asking +irrelevant questions:</p> + +<p>"Didn't we see you back in—what was that village +we came through back about twelve miles?"</p> + +<p>"Schoenstrom?" suggested Milt.</p> + +<p>"Yes, I think that was it. Didn't we pass you or +something? We stopped at a garage there, to change +a tire."</p> + +<p>"I don't think so. I was in town, though, this +morning. Say, uh, did you and your father grab any +eats——"</p> + +<p>"A——"</p> + +<p>"I mean, did you get dinner there?"</p> + +<p>"No. I wish we had!"</p> + +<p>"Well say, I didn't either, and—I'd be awfully glad +if you folks would have something to eat with me +now."</p> + +<p>Claire tried to give him a smile, but the best she +could do was to lend him one. She could not associate +interesting food with Milt and his mud-slobbered, tin-covered, +dun-painted Teal bug. He seemed satisfied +with her dubious grimace. By his suggestion they +drove ahead to a spot where the cars could be parked +on firm grass beneath oaks. On the way, Mr. Boltwood +lifted his voice in dismay. His touch of nervous +prostration had not made him queer or violent; he +retained a touching faith in good food.</p> + +<p>"We might find some good little hotel and have<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span> +some chops and just some mushrooms and peas," +insisted the man from Brooklyn Heights.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I don't suppose the country hotels are really +so awfully good," she speculated. "And look—that +nice funny boy. We couldn't hurt his feelings. He's +having so much fun out of being a Good Samaritan."</p> + +<p>From the mysterious rounded back of his car Milt +Daggett drew a tiny stove, to be heated by a can of +solidified alcohol, a frying pan that was rather large +for dolls but rather small for square-fingered hands, +a jar of bacon, eggs in a bag, a coffee pot, a can of +condensed milk, and a litter of unsorted tin plates +and china cups. While, by his request, Claire scoured +the plates and cups, he made bacon and eggs and coffee, +the little stove in the bottom of his car sheltered +by the cook's bending over it. The smell of food made +Claire forgiving toward the fact that she was wet +through; that the rain continued to drizzle down her +neck.</p> + +<p>He lifted his hand and demanded, "Take your +shoes off!"</p> + +<p>"Uh?"</p> + +<p>He gulped. He stammered, "I mean—I mean your +shoes are soaked through. If you'll sit in the car, I'll +put your shoes up by the engine. It's pretty well +heated from racing it in the mud. You can get your +stockings dry under the cowl."</p> + +<p>She was amused by the elaborateness with which he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span> +didn't glance at her while she took off her low shoes +and slipped her quite too thin black stockings under +the protecting tin cowl. She reflected, "He has such +a nice, awkward gentleness. But such bad taste! +They're really quite good ankles. Apparently ankles +are not done, in Teal bug circles. His sisters don't +even have limbs. But do fairies have sisters? He is +a fairy. When I'm out of the mud he'll turn his raincoat +into a pair of lordly white wings, and vanish. +But what will become of the cat?"</p> + +<p>Thus her tired brain, like a squirrel in a revolving +cage, while she sat primly and scraped at a clot of rust +on a tin plate and watched him put on the bacon and +eggs. Wondering if cats were used for this purpose +in the Daggett family, she put soaked, unhappy Vere +de Vere on her feet, to her own great comfort and the +cat's delight. It was an open car, and the rain still +rained, and a strange young man was a foot from her +tending the not very crackly fire, but rarely had Claire +felt so domestic.</p> + +<p>Milt was apparently struggling to say something. +After several bobs of his head he ventured, "You're +so wet! I'd like for you to take my raincoat."</p> + +<p>"No! Really! I'm already soaked through. You +keep dry."</p> + +<p>He was unhappy about it. He plucked at a button +of the coat. She turned him from the subject. "I +hope Lady Vere de Vere is getting warm, too."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span>"Seems to be. She's kind of demanding. She +wanted a little car of her own, but I didn't think +she could keep up with me, not on a long +hike."</p> + +<p>"A little car? With her paws on the tiny wheel? +Oh—sweet! Are you going far, Mr. Daggett?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, quite a ways. To Seattle, Washington."</p> + +<p>"Oh, really? Extraordinary. We're going there, +too."</p> + +<p>"Honest? You driving all the way? Oh, no, of +course your father——"</p> + +<p>"No, he doesn't drive. By the way, I hope he isn't +too miserable back there."</p> + +<p>"I'll be darned. Both of us going to Seattle. +That's what they call a coincidence, isn't it! Hope +I'll see you on the road, some time. But I don't suppose +I will. Once you're out of the mud, your Gomez +will simply lose my Teal."</p> + +<p>"Not necessarily. You're the better driver. And +I shall take it easy. Are you going to stay long in +Seattle?" It was not merely a polite dinner-payment +question. She wondered; she could not place this +fresh-cheeked, unworldly young man so far from his +home.</p> + +<p>"Why, I kind of hope—— Government railroad, +Alaska. I'm going to try to get in on that, somehow. +I've never been out of Minnesota in my life, but there's +couple mountains and oceans and things I thought I'd<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span> +like to see, so I just put my suitcase and Vere de Vere +in the machine, and started out. I burn distillate +instead of gas, so it doesn't cost much. If I ever happen +to have five whole dollars, why, I might go on to +Japan!"</p> + +<p>"That would be jolly."</p> + +<p>"Though I s'pose I'd have to eat—what is it?—pickled +fish? There's a woman from near my town +went to the Orient as a missionary. From what she +says, I guess all you need in Japan to make a house +is a bottle of mucilage and a couple of old newspapers +and some two-by-fours. And you can have the house +on a purple mountain, with cherry trees down below, +and——" He put his clenched hand to his lips. His +head was bowed. "And the ocean! Lord! The +ocean! And we'll see it at Seattle. Bay, anyway. +And steamers there—just come from India! Huh! +Getting pretty darn poetic here! Eggs are done."</p> + +<p>The young man did not again wander into visions. +He was all briskness as he served her bacon and eggs, +took a plate of them to Mr. Boltwood in the Gomez, +gouged into his own. Having herself scoured the tin +plates, Claire was not repulsed by their naked tinniness; +and the coffee in the broken-handled china cup +was tolerable. Milt drank from the top of a vacuum +bottle. He was silent. Immediately after the lunch +he stowed the things away. Claire expected a drawn-out, +tact-demanding farewell, but he climbed into his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span> +bug, said "Good-by, Miss Boltwood. Good luck!" +and was gone.</p> + +<p>The rainy road was bleakly empty without him.</p> + +<p>It did not seem possible that Claire's body could be +nagged into going on any longer. Her muscles were +relaxed, her nerves frayed. But the moment the +Gomez started, she discovered that magic change +which every long-distance motorist knows. Instantly +she was alert, seemingly able to drive forever. The +pilot's instinct ruled her; gave her tireless eyes and +sturdy hands. Surely she had never been weary; +never would be, so long as it was hers to keep the car +going.</p> + +<p>She had driven perhaps six miles when she reached +a hamlet called St. Klopstock. On the bedraggled +mud-and-shanty main street a man was loading +crushed rock into a truck. By him was a large person +in a prosperous raincoat, who stepped out, held up his +hand. Claire stopped.</p> + +<p>"You the young lady that got stuck in that hole by +Adolph Zolzac's?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. And Mr. Zolzac wasn't very nice about it."</p> + +<p>"He's going to be just elegant about it, now, and +there ain't going to be any more hole. I think Adolph +has been keeping it muddy—throwing in soft dirt—and +he made a good and plenty lot out of pulling out +tourists. Bill and I are going down right now and +fill it up with stone. Milt Daggett come through here—he's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span> +got a nerve, that fellow, but I did have to laugh—he +says to me, 'Barney——' This was just now. +He hasn't more than just drove out of town. He +said to me, 'Barney,' he says, 'you're the richest +man in this township, and the banker, and you got +a big car y'self, and you think you're one whale of +a political boss,' he says, 'and yet you let that Zolzac +maintain a private ocean, against the peace and damn +horrible inconvenience of the Commonwealth of Minnesota——' +He's got a great line of talk, that fellow. +He told me how you got stuck—made me so ashamed—I +been to New York myself—and right away I got +Bill, and we're going down and hold a donation and +surprise party on Adolph and fill that hole."</p> + +<p>"But won't Adolph dig it out again?"</p> + +<p>The banker was puffy, but his eyes were of stone. +From the truck he took a shotgun. He drawled, "In +that case, the surprise party will include an elegant +wake."</p> + +<p>"But how did—— Who is this extraordinary Milt +Daggett?"</p> + +<p>"Him? Oh, nobody 'specially. He's just a fellow +down here at Schoenstrom. But we all know him. +Goes to all the dances, thirty miles around. Thing +about him is: if he sees something wrong, he picks out +some poor fellow like me, and says what he thinks."</p> + +<p>Claire drove on. She was aware that she was looking +for Milt's bug. It was not in sight.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span>"Father," she exclaimed, "do you realize that this +lad didn't tell us he was going to have the hole filled? +Just did it. He frightens me. I'm afraid that when +we reach Gopher Prairie for the night, we'll find he +has engaged for us the suite that Prince Collars and +Cuffs once slept in."</p> + +<p>"Hhhhmm," yawned her father.</p> + +<p>"Curious young man. He said, 'Pleased to meet +you.'"</p> + +<p>"Huuuuhhm! Fresh air makes me so sleepy."</p> + +<p>"And—— Fooled you! Got through that mudhole, +anyway! And he said—— Look! Fields stretch out +so here, and not a tree except the willow-groves round +those farmhouses. And he said 'Gee' so many times, +and 'dinner' for the noon meal. And his nails—— No, +I suppose he really is just a farm youngster."</p> + +<p>Mr. Boltwood did not answer. His machine-finish +smile indicated an enormous lack of interest in young +men in Teal bugs.</p> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER IV<br /> +A ROOM WITHOUT</h2> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">Gopher Prairie</span> has all of five thousand +people. Its commercial club asserts that it has +at least a thousand more population and an infinitely +better band than the ridiculously envious neighboring +town of Joralemon. But there were few signs that +a suite had been engaged for the Boltwoods, or that +Prince Collars and Cuffs had on his royal tour of +America spent much time in Gopher Prairie. Claire +reached it somewhat before seven. She gaped at it in +a hazy way. Though this was her first prairie town +for a considerable stay, she could not pump up interest.</p> + +<p>The state of mind of the touring motorist entering +a strange place at night is as peculiar and definite as +that of a prospector. It is compounded of gratitude +at having got safely in; of perception of a new town, +yet with all eagerness about new things dulled by +weariness; of hope that there is going to be a good +hotel, but small expectation—and absolutely no probability—that +there really will be one.</p> + +<p>Claire had only a blotched impression of peaked +wooden buildings and squatty brick stores with faded +awnings; of a red grain elevator and a crouching station +and a lumberyard; then of the hopelessly muddy<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span> +road leading on again into the country. She felt that +if she didn't stop at once, she would miss the town +entirely. The driving-instinct sustained her, made +her take corners sharply, spot a garage, send the +Gomez whirling in on the cement floor.</p> + +<p>The garage attendant looked at her and yawned.</p> + +<p>"Where do you want the car?" Claire asked +sharply.</p> + +<p>"Oh, stick it in that stall," grunted the man, and +turned his back.</p> + +<p>Claire glowered at him. She thought of a good +line about rudeness. But—oh, she was too tired to +fuss. She tried to run the car into the empty stall, +which was not a stall, but a space, like a missing +tooth, between two cars, and so narrow that she was +afraid of crumpling the lordly fenders of the Gomez. +She ran down the floor, returned with a flourish, +thought she was going to back straight into the stall—and +found she wasn't. While her nerves shrieked, and +it did not seem possible that she could change gears, +she managed to get the Gomez behind a truck and +side-on to the stall.</p> + +<p>"Go forward again, and cramp your wheel—sharp!" +ordered the garage man.</p> + +<p>Claire wanted to outline what she thought of him, +but she merely demanded, "Will you kindly drive +it in?"</p> + +<p>"Why, sure. You bet," said the man casually.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span> +His readiness ruined her inspired fury. She was +somewhat disappointed.</p> + +<p>As she climbed out of the car and put a hand on +the smart bags strapped on a running-board, the accumulated +weariness struck her in a shock. She could +have driven on for hours, but the instant the car was +safe for the night, she went to pieces. Her ears rang, +her eyes were soaked in fire, her mouth was dry, the +back of her neck pinched. It was her father who took +the lead as they rambled to the one tolerable hotel in +the town.</p> + +<p>In the hotel Claire was conscious of the ugliness +of the poison-green walls and brass cuspidors and +insurance calendars and bare floor of the office; conscious +of the interesting scientific fact that all air had +been replaced by the essence of cigar smoke and cooking +cabbage; of the stares of the traveling men lounging +in bored lines; and of the lack of welcome on the +part of the night clerk, an oldish, bleached man with +whiskers instead of a collar.</p> + +<p>She tried to be important: "Two rooms with bath, +please."</p> + +<p>The bleached man stared at her, and shoved forward +the register and a pen clotted with ink. She signed. +He took the bags, led the way to the stairs. Anxiously +she asked, "Both rooms are with bath?"</p> + +<p>From the second step the night clerk looked down +at her as though she were a specimen that ought to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span> +be pinned on the corks at once, and he said loudly, +"No, ma'am. Neither of 'em. Got no rooms vacant +with bawth, or bath either! Not but what we got 'em +in the house. This is an up-to-date place. But one of +'m's took, and the other has kind of been out of order, +the last three-four months."</p> + +<p>From the audience of drummers below, a delicate +giggle.</p> + +<p>Claire was too angry to answer. And too tired. +When, after miles of stairs, leagues of stuffy hall, she +reached her coop, with its iron bed so loose-jointed +that it rattled to a breath, its bureau with a list to +port, and its anemic rocking-chair, she dropped on the +bed, panting, her eyes closed but still brimming with +fire. It did not seem that she could ever move again. +She felt chloroformed. She couldn't even coax herself +off the bed, to see if her father was any better off +in the next room.</p> + +<p>She was certain that she was not going to drive to +Seattle. She wasn't going to drive anywhere! She +was going to freight the car back to Minneapolis, and +herself go back by train—Pullman!—drawing-room!</p> + +<p>But for the thought of her father she would have +fallen asleep, in her drenched tweeds. When she did +force the energy to rise, she had to support herself +by the bureau, by the foot of the bed, as she moved +about the room, hanging up the wet suit, rubbing +herself with a slippery towel, putting on a dark silk<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span> +frock and pumps. She found her father sitting motionless +in his room, staring at the wall. She made +herself laugh at him for his gloomy emptiness. She +paraded down the hall with him.</p> + +<p>As they reached the foot of the stairs, the old +one, the night clerk leaned across the desk and, in a +voice that took the whole office into the conversation, +quizzed, "Come from New York, eh? Well, you're +quite a ways from home."</p> + +<p>Claire nodded. She felt shyer before these solemnly +staring traveling men than she ever had in a box at +the opera. At the double door of the dining-room, +from which the cabbage smell steamed with a lustiness +undiminished by the sad passing of its youth, a +man, one of the average-sized, average-mustached, +average business-suited, average-brown-haired men +who can never be remembered, stopped the Boltwoods +and hawed, "Saw you coming into town. You've got +a New York license?"</p> + +<p>She couldn't deny it.</p> + +<p>"Quite a ways from home, aren't you?"</p> + +<p>She had to admit it.</p> + +<p>She was escorted by a bouncing, black-eyed waitress +to a table for four. The next table was a long one, +at which seven traveling men, or local business men +whose wives were at the lake for the summer, ceased +trying to get nourishment out of the food, and gawped +at her. Before the Boltwoods were seated, the waitress<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span> +dabbed at non-existent spots on their napkins, +ignored a genuine crumb on the cloth in front of +Claire's plate, made motions at a cup and a formerly +plated fork, and bubbled, "Autoing through?"</p> + +<p>Claire fumbled for her chair, oozed into it, and +breathed, "Yes."</p> + +<p>"Going far?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Where do you live?"</p> + +<p>"New York."</p> + +<p>"My! You're quite a ways from home, aren't +you?"</p> + +<p>"Apparently."</p> + +<p>"Hamnegs roasbeef roaspork thapplesauce frypickerel +springlamintsauce."</p> + +<p>"I—I beg your pardon."</p> + +<p>The waitress repeated.</p> + +<p>"I—oh—oh, bring us ham and eggs. Is that all +right, father?"</p> + +<p>"Oh—no—well——"</p> + +<p>"You wanted same?" the waitress inquired of Mr. +Boltwood.</p> + +<p>He was intimidated. He said, "If you please," and +feebly pawed at a fork.</p> + +<p>The waitress was instantly back with soup, and a +collection of china gathered by a man of much +travel, catholic interests, and no taste. One of the +plates alleged itself to belong to a hotel in Omaha.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span> +She pushed a pitcher of condensed milk to the exact +spot where it would catch Mr. Boltwood's sleeve, +brushed the crumb from in front of Claire to a shelter +beneath the pink and warty sugar bowl, recovered a +toothpick which had been concealed behind her glowing +lips, picked for a while, gave it up, put her hands +on her hips, and addressed Claire:</p> + +<p>"How far you going?"</p> + +<p>"To Seattle."</p> + +<p>"Got any folks there?"</p> + +<p>"Any—— Oh, yes, I suppose so."</p> + +<p>"Going to stay there long?"</p> + +<p>"Really—— We haven't decided."</p> + +<p>"Come from New York, eh? Quite a ways from +home, all right. Father in business there?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"What's his line?"</p> + +<p>"I beg pardon?"</p> + +<p>"What's his line? Ouch! Jiminy, these shoes +pinch my feet. I used to could dance all night, but +I'm getting fat, I guess, ha! ha! Put on seven pounds +last month. Ouch! Gee, they certainly do pinch my +toes. What business you say your father's in?"</p> + +<p>"I didn't say, but—— Oh, railroad."</p> + +<p>"G. N. or N. P.?"</p> + +<p>"I don't think I quite understand——"</p> + +<p>Mr. Boltwood interposed, "Are the ham and eggs +ready?"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span>"I'll beat it out and see." When she brought them, +she put a spoon in Claire's saucer of peas, and demanded, +"Say, you don't wear that silk dress in the +auto, do you?"</p> + +<p>"No."</p> + +<p>"I should think you'd put a pink sash on it. Seems +like it's kind of plain—it's a real pretty piece of goods, +though. A pink sash would be real pretty. You +dark-complected ladies always looks better for a touch +of color."</p> + +<p>Then was Claire certain that the waitress was baiting +her, for the amusement of the men at the long +table. She exploded. Probably the waitress did not +know there had been an explosion when Claire looked +coldly up, raised her brows, looked down, and poked +the cold and salty slab of ham, for she was continuing:</p> + +<p>"A light-complected lady like me don't need so much +color, you notice my hair is black, but I'm light, really, +Pete Liverquist says I'm a blonde brunette, gee, he +certainly is killing that fellow, oh, he's a case, he sure +does like to hear himself talk, my! there's Old Man +Walters, he runs the telephone exchange here, I heard +he went down to St. Cloud on Number 2, but I guess +he couldn't of, he'll be yodeling for friend soup and +a couple slabs of moo, I better beat it, I'll say so, so +long."</p> + +<p>Claire's comment was as acid as the pale beets<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span> +before her, as bitter as the peas, as hard as the lumps +in the watery mashed potatoes:</p> + +<p>"I don't know whether the woman is insane or +ignorant. I wish I could tell whether she was trying +to make me angry for the benefit of those horrid unshaven +men, or merely for her private edification."</p> + +<p>"By me, dolly. So is this pie. Let's get some medium +to levitate us up to bed. Uh—uh—— I think +perhaps we'd better not try to drive clear to Seattle. +If we just went through to Montana?—or even just +to Bismarck?"</p> + +<p>"Drive through with the hotels like this? My +dear man, if we have one more such day, we stop +right there. I hope we get by the man at the desk. I +have a feeling he's lurking there, trying to think up +something insulting to say to us. Oh, my dear, I hope +you aren't as beastly tired as I am. My bones are hot +pokers."</p> + +<p>The man at the desk got in only one cynical question, +"Driving far?" before Claire seized her father's arm +and started him upstairs.</p> + +<p>For the first time since she had been ten—and in a +state of naughtiness immediately following a pronounced +state of grace induced by the pulpit oratory of +the new rector of St. Chrysostom's—she permitted +herself the luxury of not stopping to brush her teeth +before she went to bed. Her sleep was drugged—it +was not sleep, but an aching exhaustion of the body<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span> +which did not prevent her mind from revisualizing +the road, going stupidly over the muddy stretches +and sharp corners, then becoming conscious of that +bed, the lump under her shoulder blades, the slope to +westward, and the creak that rose every time she +tossed. For at least fifteen minutes she lay awake +for hours.</p> + +<p>Thus Claire Boltwood's first voyage into democracy.</p> + +<p>It was not so much that the sun was shining, in the +morning, as that a ripple of fresh breeze came through +the window. She discovered that she again longed to +go on—keep going on—see new places, conquer new +roads. She didn't want all good road. She wanted +something to struggle against. She'd try it for one +more day. She was stiff as she crawled out of bed, +but a rub with cold water left her feeling that she +was stronger than she ever had been; that she was a +woman, not a dependent girl. Already, in the beating +prairie sun-glare, the wide main street of Gopher +Prairie was drying; the mud ruts flattening out. Beyond +the town hovered the note of a meadow lark—sunlight +in sound.</p> + +<p>"Oh, it's a sweet morning! Sweet! We will go +on! I'm terribly excited!" she laughed.</p> + +<p>She found her father dressed. He did not know +whether or not he wanted to go on. "I seem to have +lost my grip on things. I used to be rather decisive. +But we'll try it one more day, if you like," he said.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span>When she had gaily marched him downstairs, she +suddenly and unhappily remembered the people she +would have to face, the gibing questions she would +have to answer.</p> + +<p>The night clerk was still at the desk, as though he +had slept standing. He hailed them. "Well, well! +Up bright and early! Hope you folks slept well. +Beds aren't so good as they might be, but we're kind +of planning to get some new mattresses. But you get +pretty good air to sleep in. Hope you have a fine hike +today."</p> + +<p>His voice was cordial; he was their old friend; +faithful watcher of their progress. Claire found herself +dimpling at him.</p> + +<p>In the dining-room their inquisitional acquaintance, +the waitress, fairly ran to them. "Sit down, folks. +Waffles this morning. You want to stock up for your +drive. My, ain't it an elegant morning! I hope you +have a swell drive today!"</p> + +<p>"Why!" Claire gasped, "why, they aren't rude. +They care—about people they never saw before. +That's why they ask questions! I never thought—I +never thought! There's people in the world who want +to know us without having looked us up in the Social +Register! I'm so ashamed! Not that the sunshine +changes my impression of this coffee. It's frightful! +But that will improve. And the people—they were +being friendly, all the time. Oh, Henry B., young<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span> +Henry Boltwood, you and your godmother Claire have +a lot to learn about the world!"</p> + +<p>As they came into the garage, their surly acquaintance +of the night before looked just as surly, but +Claire tried a boisterous "Good morning!"</p> + +<p>"Mornin'! Going north? Better take the left-hand +road at Wakamin. Easier going. Drive your +car out for you?"</p> + +<p>As the car stood outside taking on gas, a man +flapped up, spelled out the New York license, looked +at Claire and her father, and inquired, "Quite a ways +from home, aren't you?"</p> + +<p>This time Claire did not say "Yes!" She experimented +with, "Yes, quite a ways."</p> + +<p>"Well, hope you have a good trip. Good luck!"</p> + +<p>Claire leaned her head on her hand, thought hard. +"It's I who wasn't friendly," she propounded to her +father. "How much I've been losing. Though I still +refuse to like that coffee!"</p> + +<p>She noticed the sign on the air-hose of the garage—"Free +Air."</p> + +<p>"There's our motto for the pilgrimage!" she cried.</p> + +<p>She knew the exaltation of starting out in the fresh +morning for places she had never seen, without the +bond of having to return at night.</p> + +<p>Thus Claire's second voyage into democracy.</p> + +<p>While she was starting the young man who had +pulled her out of the mud and given her lunch was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span> +folding up the tarpaulin and blankets on which he had +slept beside his Teal bug, in the woods three miles +north of Gopher Prairie. To the high-well-born cat, +Vere de Vere, Milt Daggett mused aloud, "Your ladyship, +as Shakespeare says, the man that gets cold feet +never wins the girl. And I'm scared, cat, clean +scared."</p> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER V<br /> +RELEASE BRAKES—SHIFT TO THIRD</h2> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">Milt Daggett</span> had not been accurate in his +implication that he had not noticed Claire at a +garage in Schoenstrom. For one thing, he owned the +garage.</p> + +<p>Milt was the most prosperous young man in the +village of Schoenstrom. Neither the village itself nor +the nearby <i>Strom</i> is really <i>schoen</i>. The entire business +district of Schoenstrom consists of Heinie Rauskukle's +general store, which is brick; the Leipzig +House, which is frame; the Old Home Poolroom and +Restaurant, which is of old logs concealed by a frame +sheathing; the farm-machinery agency, which is galvanized +iron, its roof like an enlarged washboard; +the church; the three saloons; and the Red Trail Garage, +which is also, according to various signs, the +Agency for Teal Car Best at the Test, Stonewall Tire +Service Station, Sewing Machines and Binders Repaired, +Dr. Hostrum the Veterinarian every Thursday, +Gas Today 27c.</p> + +<p>The Red Trail Garage is of cement and tapestry +brick. In the office is a clean hardwood floor, a typewriter, +and a picture of Elsie Ferguson. The establishment<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span> +has an automatic rim-stretcher, a wheel +jack, and a reputation for honesty.</p> + +<p>The father of Milt Daggett was the Old Doctor, +born in Maine, coming to this frontier in the day +when Chippewas camped in your dooryard, and came +in to help themselves to coffee, which you made of +roasted corn. The Old Doctor bucked northwest blizzards, +read Dickens and Byron, pulled people through +typhoid, and left to Milt his shabby old medicine case +and thousands of dollars—in uncollectible accounts. +Mrs. Daggett had long since folded her crinkly hands +in quiet death.</p> + +<p>Milt had covered the first two years of high school +by studying with the priest, and been sent to the city +of St. Cloud for the last two years. His father had +meant to send him to the state university. But Milt +had been born to a talent for machinery. At twelve he +had made a telephone that worked. At eighteen he +was engineer in the tiny flour mill in Schoenstrom. +At twenty-five, when Claire Boltwood chose to come +tearing through his life in a Gomez-Dep, Milt was the +owner, manager, bookkeeper, wrecking crew, ignition +expert, thoroughly competent bill-collector, and all but +one of the working force of the Red Trail Garage.</p> + +<p>There were two factions in Schoenstrom: the retired +farmers who said that German was a good enough language +for anybody, and that taxes for schools and +sidewalks were yes something crazy; and the group<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span> +who stated that a pig-pen is a fine place, but only for +pigs. To this second, revolutionary wing belonged a +few of the first generation, most of the second, and +all of the third; and its leader was Milt Daggett. He +did not talk much, normally, but when he thought +things ought to be done, he was as annoying as a machine-gun +test in the lot next to a Quaker meeting.</p> + +<p>If there had been a war, Milt would probably have +been in it—rather casual, clearing his throat, reckoning +and guessing that maybe his men might try going +over and taking that hill ... then taking it. +But all of this history concerns the year just before +America spoke to Germany; and in this town buried +among the cornfields and the wheat, men still thought +more about the price of grain than about the souls of +nations.</p> + +<p>On the evening before Claire Boltwood left Minneapolis +and adventured into democracy, Milt was in the +garage. He wore union overalls that were tan where +they were not grease-black; a faded blue cotton shirt; +and the crown of a derby, with the rim not too neatly +hacked off with a dull toad-stabber jack-knife.</p> + +<p>Milt smiled at his assistant, Ben Sittka, and suggested, +"Well, <i>wie geht 's mit</i> the work, eh? Like to +stay and get the prof's flivver out, so he can have it +in the morning?"</p> + +<p>"You bet, boss."</p> + +<p>"Getting to be quite a mechanic, Ben."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span>"I'll say so!"</p> + +<p>"If you get stuck, come yank me out of the Old +Home."</p> + +<p>"Aw rats, boss. I'll finish it. You beat it." Ben +grinned at Milt adoringly.</p> + +<p>Milt stripped off his overalls and derby-crown, and +washed his big, firm hands with gritty soft soap. He +cleaned his nails with a file which he carried in his +upper vest pocket in a red imitation morocco case +which contained a comb, a mirror, an indelible pencil, +and a note-book with the smudged pencil addresses of +five girls in St. Cloud, and a memorandum about +Rauskukle's car.</p> + +<p>He put on a twisted brown tie, an old blue serge +suit, and a hat which, being old and shabby, had become +graceful. He ambled up the street. He couldn't +have ambled more than three blocks and have remained +on the street. Schoenstrom tended to leak off into jungles +of tall corn.</p> + +<p>Two men waved at him, and one demanded, "Say, +Milt, is whisky good for the toothache? What d' you +think! The doc said it didn't do any good. But then, +gosh, he's only just out of college."</p> + +<p>"I guess he's right."</p> + +<p>"Is that a fact! Well, I'll keep off it then."</p> + +<p>Two stores farther on, a bulky farmer hailed, "Say, +Milt, should I get an ensilage cutter yet?"</p> + +<p>"Yuh," in the manner of a man who knows too<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span> +much to be cocksure about anything, "I don't know +but what I would, Julius."</p> + +<p>"I guess I vill then."</p> + +<p>Minnie Rauskukle, plump, hearty Minnie, heiress +to the general store, gave evidence by bridling and +straightening her pigeon-like body that she was aware +of Milt behind her. He did not speak to her. He +ducked into the door of the Old Home Poolroom and +Restaurant.</p> + +<p>Milt ranged up to the short lunch counter, in front +of the pool table where two brick-necked farm youngsters +were furiously slamming balls and attacking +cigarettes. Loose-jointedly Milt climbed a loose-jointed +high stool and to the proprietor, Bill McGolwey, +his best friend, he yawned, "You might poison +me with a hamburger and a slab of apple, Mac."</p> + +<p>"I'll just do that little thing. Look kind of grouchy +tonight, Milt."</p> + +<p>"Too much excitement in this burg. Saw three +people on the streets all simultaneously to-once."</p> + +<p>"What's been eatin' you lately?"</p> + +<p>"Me? Nothing. Only I do get tired of this metropolis. +One of these days I'm going to buck some +bigger place."</p> + +<p>"Try Gopher Prairie maybe?" suggested Mac, +through the hiss and steam of the frying hamburger +sandwich.</p> + +<p>"Rats. Too small."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span>"Small? Why, there's darn near five thousand +people there!"</p> + +<p>"I know, but—I want to tackle some sure-nuff +city. Like Duluth or New York."</p> + +<p>"But what'd you do?"</p> + +<p>"That's the devil of it. I don't know just what I +do want to do. I could always land soft in a garage, +but that's nothing new. Might hit Detroit, and learn +the motor-factory end."</p> + +<p>"Aw, you're the limit, Milt. Always looking for +something new."</p> + +<p>"That's the way to get on. The rest of this town +is afraid of new things. 'Member when I suggested +we all chip in on a dynamo with a gas engine and +have electric lights? The hicks almost died of nervousness."</p> + +<p>"Yuh, that's true, but—— You stick here, Milt. +You and me will just nachly run this burg."</p> + +<p>"I'll say! Only—— Gosh, Mac, I would like to +go to a real show, once. And find out how radio +works. And see 'em put in a big suspension bridge!"</p> + +<p>Milt left the Old Home rather aimlessly. He told +himself that he positively would not go back and help +Ben Sittka get out the prof's car. So he went back +and helped Ben get out the prof's car, and drove the +same to the prof's. The prof, otherwise professor, +otherwise mister, James Martin Jones, B.A., and Mrs. +James Martin Jones welcomed him almost as noisily<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span> +as had Mac. They begged him to come in. With Mr. +Jones he discussed—no, ye Claires of Brooklyn +Heights, this garage man and this threadbare young +superintendent of a paintbare school, talking in a town +that was only a comma on the line, did not discuss +corn-growing, nor did they reckon to guess that by +heck the constabule was carryin' on with the Widdy +Perkins. They spoke of fish-culture, Elihu Root, the +spiritualistic evidences of immortality, government +ownership, self-starters for flivvers, and the stories +of Irvin Cobb.</p> + +<p>Milt went home earlier than he wanted to. Because +Mr. Jones was the only man in town besides the priest +who read books, because Mrs. Jones was the only +woman who laughed about any topics other than children +and family sickness, because he wanted to go to +their house every night, Milt treasured his welcome as +a sacred thing, and kept himself from calling on them +more than once a week.</p> + +<p>He stopped on his way to the garage to pet Emil +Baumschweiger's large gray cat, publicly known as +Rags, but to Milt and to the lady herself recognized +as the unfortunate Countess Vere de Vere—perhaps +the only person of noble ancestry and mysterious past +in Milt's acquaintance. The Baumschweigers did not +treat their animals well; Emil kicked the bay mare, +and threw pitchforks at Vere de Vere. Milt saluted +her and sympathized:</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span>"You have a punk time, don't you, countess? +Like to beat it to Minneapolis with me?"</p> + +<p>The countess said that she did indeed have an +extraordinarily punk time, and she sang to Milt the +hymn of the little gods of the warm hearth. Then +Milt's evening dissipations were over. Schoenstrom +has movies only once a week. He sat in the office of +his garage ruffling through a weekly digest of events. +Milt read much, though not too easily. He had no +desire to be a poet, an Indo-Iranian etymologist, a lecturer +to women's clubs, or the secretary of state. But +he did rouse to the marvels hinted in books and magazines; +to large crowds, the mechanism of submarines, +palm trees, gracious women.</p> + +<p>He laid down the magazine. He stared at the wall. +He thought about nothing. He seemed to be fumbling +for something about which he could deliciously think +if he could but grasp it. Without quite visualizing +either wall or sea, he was yet recalling old dreams of a +moonlit wall by a warm stirring southern sea. If +there was a girl in the dream she was intangible as +the scent of the night. Presently he was asleep, a +not at all romantic figure, rather ludicrously tipped +to one side in his office chair, his large solid shoes up +on the desk.</p> + +<p>He half woke, and filtered to what he called home—one +room in the cottage of an oldish woman who had +prejudices against the perilous night air. He was too<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span> +sleepy to go through any toilet save pulling off his +shoes, and achieving an unconvincing wash at the +little stand, whose crackly varnish was marked with +white rings from the toothbrush mug.</p> + +<p>"I feel about due to pull off some fool stunt. Wonder +what it will be?" he complained, as he flopped on +the bed.</p> + +<p>He was up at six, and at a quarter to seven was at +work in the garage. He spent a large part of the +morning in trying to prove to a customer that even a +Teal car, best at the test, would not give perfect service +if the customer persisted in forgetting to fill the oil-well, +the grease-cups, and the battery.</p> + +<p>At three minutes after twelve Milt left the garage +to go to dinner. The fog of the morning had turned +to rain. McGolwey was not at the Old Home. Sometimes +Mac got tired of serving meals, and for a day or +two he took to a pocket flask, and among his former +customers the cans of prepared meat at Rauskukle's +became popular. Milt found him standing under the +tin awning of the general store. He had a troubled +hope of keeping Mac from too long a vacation with +the pocket flask. But Mac was already red-eyed. He +seemed only half to recognize Milt.</p> + +<p>"Swell day!" said Milt.</p> + +<p>"Y' bet."</p> + +<p>"Road darn muddy."</p> + +<p>"I should worry. Yea, bo', I'm feelin' good!"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span>At eleven minutes past twelve a Gomez-Dep roadster +appeared down the road, stopped at the garage. +To Milt it was as exciting as the appearance of a +comet to a watching astronomer.</p> + +<p>"What kind of a car do you call that, Milt?" +asked a loafer.</p> + +<p>"Gomez-Deperdussin."</p> + +<p>"Never heard of it. Looks too heavy."</p> + +<p>This was sacrilege. Milt stormed, "Why, you poor +floof, it's one of the best cars in the world. Imported +from France. That looks like a special-made American +body, though. Trouble with you fellows is, you're +always scared of anything that's new. Too—heavy! +Huh! Always wanted to see a Gomez—never have, +except in pictures. And I believe that's a New York +license. Let me at it!"</p> + +<p>He forgot noon-hunger, and clumped through the +rain to the garage. He saw a girl step from the car. +He stopped, in the doorway of the Old Home, in uneasy +shyness. He told himself he didn't "know just +what it is about her—she isn't so darn unusually +pretty and yet—gee—— Certainly isn't a girl to get +fresh with. Let Ben take care of her. Like to talk +to her, and yet I'd be afraid if I opened my mouth, +I'd put my foot in it."</p> + +<p>He was for the first time seeing a smart woman. +This dark, slender, fine-nerved girl, in her plain, rough, +closely-belted, gray suit, her small black Glengarry<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span> +cocked on one side of her smooth hair, her little kid +gloves, her veil, was as delicately adjusted as an aeroplane +engine.</p> + +<p>Milt wanted to trumpet her exquisiteness to the +world, so he growled to a man standing beside him, +"Swell car. Nice-lookin' girl, kind of."</p> + +<p>"Kind of skinny, though. I like 'em with some +meat on 'em," yawned the man.</p> + +<p>No, Milt did not strike him to earth. He insisted +feebly, "Nice clothes she's got, though."</p> + +<p>"Oh, not so muchamuch. I seen a woman come +through here yesterday that was swell, though—had +on a purple dress and white shoes and a hat big 's a +bushel."</p> + +<p>"Well, I don't know, I kind of like those simple +things," apologized Milt.</p> + +<p>He crept toward the garage. The girl was inside. +He inspected the slope-topped, patent-leather motoring +trunk on the rack at the rear of the Gomez-Dep. +He noticed a middle-aged man waiting in the car. +"Must be her father. Probably—maybe she isn't +married then." He could not get himself to shout at +the man, as he usually did. He entered the garage +office; from the inner door he peeped at the girl, who +was talking to his assistant about changing an inner +tube.</p> + +<p>That Ben Sittka whom an hour ago he had cajoled +as a promising child he now admired for the sniffing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span> +calmness with which he was demanding, "Want a red +or gray tube?"</p> + +<p>"Really, I don't know. Which is the better?" The +girl's voice was curiously clear.</p> + +<p>Milt passed Claire Boltwood as though he did not +see her; stood at the rear of the garage kicking at the +tires of a car, his back to her. Over and over he was +grumbling, "If I just knew one girl like that—— Like +a picture. Like—like a silver vase on a blue +cloth!"</p> + +<p>Ben Sittka did not talk to the girl while he inserted +the tube in the spare casing. Only, in the triumphant +moment when the parted ends of the steel rim snapped +back together, he piped, "Going far?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, rather. To Seattle."</p> + +<p>Milt stared at the cobweb-grayed window. "Now +I know what I was planning to do. I'm going to +Seattle," he said.</p> + +<p>The girl was gone at twenty-nine minutes after +twelve. At twenty-nine and a half minutes after, +Milt remarked to Ben Sittka, "I'm going to take a +trip. Uh? Now don't ask questions. You take +charge of the garage until you hear from me. Get +somebody to help you. G'-by."</p> + +<p>He drove his Teal bug out of the garage. At +thirty-two minutes after twelve he was in his room, +packing his wicker suitcase by the method of throwing +things in and stamping on the case till it closed. In<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span> +it he had absolutely all of his toilet refinements and +wardrobe except the important portion already in use. +They consisted, according to faithful detailed report, +of four extra pairs of thick yellow and white cotton +socks; two shirts, five collars, five handkerchiefs; a +pair of surprisingly vain dancing pumps; high tan +laced boots; three suits of cheap cotton underclothes; +his Sunday suit, which was dead black in color, and +unimaginative in cut; four ties; a fagged toothbrush, +a comb and hairbrush, a razor, a strop, shaving soap +in a mug; a not very clean towel; and nothing else +whatever.</p> + +<p>To this he added his entire library and private picture +gallery, consisting of Ivanhoe, Ben-Hur, his +father's copy of Byron, a wireless manual, and the +1916 edition of Motor Construction and Repairing: +the art collection, one colored Sunday supplement picture +of a princess lunching in a Provençe courtyard, +and a half-tone of Colonel Paul Beck landing in an +early military biplane. Under this last, in a pencil +scrawl now blurred to grayness, Milt had once written, +"This what Ill be aviator."</p> + +<p>What he was to wear was a piercing trouble. Till +eleven minutes past twelve that day he had not cared. +People accepted his overalls at anything except a +dance, and at the dances he was the only one who +wore pumps. But in his discovery of Claire Boltwood +he had perceived that dressing is an art. Before<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span> +he had packed, he had unhappily pawed at the prized +black suit. It had become stupid. "Undertaker!" +he growled.</p> + +<p>With a shrug which indicated that he had nothing +else, he had exchanged his overalls for a tan flannel +shirt, black bow tie, thick pigskin shoes, and the suit +he had worn the evening before, his best suit of two +years ago—baggy blue serge coat and trousers. He +could not know it, but they were surprisingly graceful +on his wiry, firm, white body.</p> + +<p>In his pockets were a roll of bills and an unexpectedly +good gold watch. For warmth he had a +winter ulster, an old-fashioned turtle-neck sweater, +and a raincoat heavy as tarpaulin. He plunged into +the raincoat, ran out, galloped to Rauskukle's store, +bought the most vehement cap in the place—a plaid +of cerise, orange, emerald green, ultramarine, and five +other guaranteed fashionable colors. He stocked up +with food for roadside camping.</p> + +<p>In the humping tin-covered tail of the bug was a +good deal of room, and this he filled with motor +extras, a shotgun and shells, a pair of skates, and all +his camping kit as used on his annual duck-hunting +trip to Man Trap Lake.</p> + +<p>"I'm a darned fool to take everything I own +but—— Might be gone a whole month," he reflected.</p> + +<p>He had only one possession left—a check book, concealed +from the interested eye of his too maternal<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span> +landlady by sticking it under the stair carpet. This +he retrieved. It showed a balance of two hundred +dollars. There was ten dollars in the cash register in +the office, for Ben Sittka. The garage would, with the +mortgage deducted, be worth nearly two thousand. +This was his fortune.</p> + +<p>He bolted into the kitchen and all in one shout he +informed his landlady, "Called out of town, li'l trip, +b'lieve I don't owe you an'thing, here's six dollars, two +weeks' notice, dunno just when I be back."</p> + +<p>Before she could issue a questionnaire he was out +in the bug. He ran through town. At his friend +McGolwey; now loose-lipped and wabbly, sitting in +the rain on a pile of ties behind the railroad station, +he yelled, "So long, Mac. Take care yourself, old +hoss. Off on li'l trip."</p> + +<p>He stopped in front of the "prof's," tooted till the +heads of the Joneses appeared at the window, waved +and shouted, "G'-by, folks. Goin' outa town."</p> + +<p>Then, while freedom and the distant Pacific seemed +to rush at him over the hood, he whirled out of town. +It was two minutes to one—forty-seven minutes since +Claire Boltwood had entered Schoenstrom.</p> + +<p>He stopped only once. His friend Lady Vere de +Vere was at the edge of town, on a scientific exploring +trip in the matter of ethnology and field mice. She +hailed him, "Mrwr? Me mrwr!"</p> + +<p>"You don't say so!" Milt answered in surprise.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span> +"Well, if I promised to take you, I'll keep my word." +He vaulted out, tucked Vere de Vere into the seat, +protecting her from the rain with the tarpaulin winter +radiator-cover.</p> + +<p>His rut-skipping car overtook the mud-walloping +Gomez-Dep in an hour, and pulled it out of the mud.</p> + +<p>Before Milt slept that night, in his camp three miles +from Gopher Prairie, he went through religious rites.</p> + +<p>"Girl like her, she's darn particular about her looks. +I'm a sloppy hound. Used to be snappier about my +clothes when I was in high school. Getting lazy—too +much like Mac. Think of me sleeping in my +clothes last night!"</p> + +<p>"Mrwr!" rebuked the cat.</p> + +<p>"You're dead right. Fierce is the word. Nev' +will sleep in my duds again, puss. That is, when I +have a reg'lar human bed. Course camping, different. +But still—— Let's see all the funny things we can +do to us."</p> + +<p>He shaved—two complete shaves, from lather to +towel. He brushed his hair. He sat down by a campfire +sheltered between two rocks, and fought his nails, +though they were discouragingly crammed with motor +grease. Throughout this interesting but quite painful +ceremony Milt kept up a conversation between himself +as the World's Champion Dude, and his cat +as Vallay. But when there was nothing more to do, +and the fire was low, and Vere de Vere asleep in the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span> +sleeve of the winter ulster, his bumbling voice slackened; +in something like agony he muttered:</p> + +<p>"But oh, what's the use? I can't ever be anything +but a dub! Cleaning my nails, to make a hit with +a girl that's got hands like hers! It's a long trail to +Seattle, but it's a darn sight longer one to being—being—well, +sophisticated. Oh! And incidentally, +what the deuce am I going to do in Seattle if I do get +there?"</p> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER VI<br /> +THE LAND OF BILLOWING CLOUDS</h2> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">Never</span> a tawny-beached ocean has the sweetness +of the prairie slew. Rippling and blue, with +long grass up to its edge, a spot of dancing light set +in the miles of rustling wheat, it retains even in July, +on an afternoon of glare and brazen locusts, the freshness +of a spring morning. A thousand slews, a hundred +lakes bordered with rippling barley or tinkling +bells of the flax, Claire passed. She had left the +occasional groves of oak and poplar and silver birch, +and come out on the treeless Great Plains.</p> + +<p>She had learned to call the slews "pugholes," and +to watch for ducks at twilight. She had learned that +about the pugholes flutter choirs of crimson-winged +blackbirds; that the ugly brown birds squatting on +fence-rails were the divine-voiced meadow larks; that +among the humble cowbird citizens of the pastures +sometimes flaunted a scarlet tanager or an oriole; and +that no rose garden has the quaint and hardy beauty of +the Indian paint brushes and rag babies and orange +milkweed in the prickly, burnt-over grass between +roadside and railway line.</p> + +<p>She had learned that what had seemed rudeness in +garage men and hotel clerks was often a resentful reflection<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span> +of her own Eastern attitude that she was necessarily +superior to a race she had been trained to call +"common people." If she spoke up frankly, they +made her one of their own, and gave her companionable +aid.</p> + +<p>For two days of sunshine and drying mud she followed +a road flung straight across flat wheatlands, then +curving among low hills. Often there were no fences; +she was so intimately in among the grain that the +fenders of the car brushed wheat stalks, and she became +no stranger, but a part of all this vast-horizoned +land. She forgot that she was driving, as she let the +car creep on, while she was transported by Armadas +of clouds, prairie clouds, wisps of vapor like a ribbed +beach, or mounts of cumulus swelling to gold-washed +snowy peaks.</p> + +<p>The friendliness of the bearing earth gave her a +calm that took no heed of passing hours. Even her +father, the abstracted man of affairs, nodded to dusty +people along the road; to a jolly old man whose bulk +rolled and shook in a tiny, rhythmically creaking +buggy, to women in the small abrupt towns with their +huge red elevators and their long, flat-roofed stores.</p> + +<p>Claire had discovered America, and she felt stronger, +and all her days were colored with the sun.</p> + +<p>She had discovered, too, that she could adventure. +No longer was she haunted by the apprehension that +had whispered to her as she had left Minneapolis.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span> +She knew a thrill when she hailed—as though it were +a passing ship—an Illinois car across whose dust-caked +back was a banner "Chicago to the Yellowstone." +She experienced a new sensation of common +humanness when, on a railway paralleling the wagon +road for miles, the engineer of a freight waved his +hand to her, and tooted the whistle in greeting.</p> + +<p>Her father was easily tired, but he drowsed through +the early afternoons when a none-too-digestible small-town +lunch was as lead within him. Despite the beauty +of the land and the joy of pushing on, they both had +things to endure.</p> + +<p>After lunch, it was sometimes an agony to Claire +to keep awake. Her eyes felt greasy from the food, +or smarted with the sun-glare. In the still air, after +the morning breeze had been burnt out, the heat from +the engine was a torment about her feet; and if there +was another car ahead, the trail of dust sifted into +her throat. Unless there was traffic to keep her awake, +she nodded at the wheel; she was merely a part of a +machine that ran on without seeming to make any +impression on the prairie's endlessness.</p> + +<p>Over and over there were the same manipulations: +slow for down hill, careful of sand at the bottom, letting +her out on a smooth stretch, waving to a lonely +farmwife in her small, baked dooryard, slow to pass a +hay-wagon, gas for up the next hill, and repeat the +round all over again. But she was joyous till noon;<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span> +and with mid-afternoon a new strength came which, +as rose crept above the golden haze of dust, deepened +into serene meditation.</p> + +<p>And she was finding the one secret of long-distance +driving—namely, driving; keeping on, thinking by +fifty-mile units, not by the ten-mile stretches of Long +Island runs; and not fretting over anything whatever. +She seemed charmed; if she had a puncture—why, +she put on the spare. If she ran out of gas—why, any +passing driver would lend her a gallon. Nothing, it +seemed, could halt her level flight across the giant +land.</p> + +<p>She rarely lost her way. She was guided by the +friendly trail signs—those big red R's and L's on fence +post and telephone pole, magically telling the way from +the Mississippi to the Pacific.</p> + +<p>Her father's occasional musing talk kept her from +loneliness. He was a good touring companion. +Motoring is not the best occasion for epigrams, satire, +and the Good One You Got Off at the Lambs' Club +last night. Such verbiage on motor trips invariably +results in the mysterious finding of the corpse of a +strange man, well dressed, hidden beside the road. +Claire and her father mumbled, "Good farmhouse—brick," +or "Nice view," and smiled, and were for +miles as silent as the companionable sky.</p> + +<p>She thought of the people she knew, especially of +Jeff Saxton. But she could not clearly remember his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span> +lean earnest face. Between her and Jeff were sweeping +sunny leagues. But she was not lonely. Certainly +she was not lonely for a young man with a raincoat, a +cat, and an interest in Japan.</p> + +<p>No singer after a first concert has felt more triumphant +than Claire when she crossed her first state-line; +rumbled over the bridge across the Red River into +North Dakota. To see Dakota car licenses everywhere, +instead of Minnesota, was like the sensation of +street signs in a new language. And when she found +a good hotel in Fargo and had a real bath, she felt that +by her own efforts she had earned the right to enjoy it.</p> + +<p>Mr. Boltwood caught her enthusiasm. Dinner was +a festival, and in iced tea the peaceful conquistadores +drank the toast of the new Spanish Main; and afterward, +arm in arm, went chattering to the movies.</p> + +<p>In front of the Royal Palace, Pictures, 4 Great Acts +Vaudeville 4, was browsing a small, beetle-like, tin-covered +car.</p> + +<p>"Dad! Look! I'm sure—yes, of course, there's +his suitcase—that's the car of that nice boy—don't +you remember?—the one that pulled us out of the mud +at—I don't remember the name of the place. Apparently +he's keeping going. I remember; he's headed for +Seattle, too. We'll look for him in the theater. Oh, +the darling, there's his cat! What was the funny name +he gave her—the Marchioness Montmorency or something?"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span>Lady Vere de Vere, afraid of Fargo and movie +crowds, but trusting in her itinerant castle, the bug, +was curled in Milt Daggett's ulster, in the bottom of +the car. She twinkled her whiskers at Claire, and +purred to a stroking hand.</p> + +<p>With the excitement of one trying to find the address +of a friend in a strange land Claire looked over +the audience when the lights came on before the vaudeville. +In the second row she saw Milt's stiffish, rope-colored +hair—surprisingly smooth above an astoundingly +clean new tan shirt of mercerized silk.</p> + +<p>He laughed furiously at the dialogue between Pete-Rosenheim +& Larose-Bettina, though it contained the +cheese joke, the mother-in-law joke, and the joke about +the wife rifling her husband's pockets.</p> + +<p>"Our young friend seems to have enviable youthful +spirits," commented Mr. Boltwood.</p> + +<p>"Now, no superiority! He's probably never seen +a real vaudeville show. Wouldn't it be fun to take +him to the Winter Garden or the Follies for the first +time!... Instead of being taken by Jeff Saxton, +and having the humor, oh! so articulately explained!"</p> + +<p>The pictures were resumed; the film which, under +ten or twelve different titles, Claire had already seen, +even though Brooklyn Heights does not devote Saturday +evening to the movies. The badman, the sheriff—an +aged party with whiskers and boots—the holdup, +the sad eyes of the sheriff's daughter—also an aged<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span> +party, but with a sunbonnet and the most expensive +rouge—the crook's reformation, and his violent adherence +to law and order; this libel upon the portions +of these United States lying west of longitude 101° +Claire had seen too often. She dragged her father +back to the hotel, sent him to bed, and entered her +room—to find a telegram upon the bureau.</p> + +<p>She had sent her friends a list of the places at which +she would be likely to stop. The message was from +Jeff Saxton, in Brooklyn. It brought to her mind the +steady shine of his glasses—the most expensive glasses, +with the very best curved lenses—as it demanded:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"Received letter about trip surprised anxious will +tire you out fatigue prairie roads bad for your father +mountain roads dangerous strongly advise go only +part way then take train.</p> + +<p class="rgt"><span class="smcap">Geoffrey.</span>"</p></div> + +<p>She held the telegram, flipping her fingers against +one end of it as she debated. She remembered how +the wide world had flowed toward her over the hood +of the Gomez all day. She wrote in answer:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p>"Awful perils of road, two punctures, split infinitive, +eggs at lunch questionable, but struggle on."</p></div> + +<p>Before she sent it she held council with her father. +She sat on the foot of his bed and tried to sound dutiful.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span> +"I don't want to do anything that's bad for +you, daddy. But isn't it taking your mind away from +business?"</p> + +<p>"Ye-es, I think it is. Anyway, we'll try it a few +days more."</p> + +<p>"I fancy we can stand up under the strain and +perils. I think we can persuade some of these big +farmers to come to the rescue if we encounter any +walruses or crocodiles among the wheat. And I have +a feeling that if we ever get stuck, our friend of the +Teal bug will help us."</p> + +<p>"Probably never see him again. He'll skip on ahead +of us."</p> + +<p>"Of course. We haven't laid an eye on him, along +the road. He must have gotten into Fargo long before +we did. Now tomorrow I think——"</p> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER VII<br /> +THE GREAT AMERICAN FRYING PAN</h2> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">It</span> was Claire's first bad day since the hole in the +mud. She had started gallantly, scooting along +the level road that flies straight west of Fargo. But +at noon she encountered a restaurant which made eating +seem an evil.</p> + +<p>That they might have fair fame among motorists +the commercial club of Reaper had set at the edge +of town a sign "Welcome to Reaper, a Live Town—Speed +Limit 8 Miles perhr." Being interpreted, that +sign meant that if you went much over twenty miles an +hour on the main street, people might glance at you; +and that the real welcome, the only impression of +Reaper that tourists were likely to carry away, was the +welcome in the one restaurant. It was called the Eats +Garden. As Claire and her father entered, they were +stifled by a belch of smoke from the frying pan in the +kitchen. The room was blocked by a huge lunch +counter; there was only one table, covered with oil +cloth decorated with venerable spots of dried egg yolk.</p> + +<p>The waiter-cook, whose apron was gravy-patterned, +with a border and stomacher of plain gray dirt, grumbled, +"Whadyuhwant?"</p> + +<p>Claire sufficiently recovered to pick out the type<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span> +from the fly specks on the menu, and she ordered a +small steak and coffee for her father; for herself tea, +boiled eggs, toast.</p> + +<p>"Toast? We ain't got any toast!"</p> + +<p>"Well, can't you make it?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I suppose I could——"</p> + +<p>When they came, the slices of toast were an inch +thick, burnt on one side and raw on the other. The +tea was bitter and the eggs watery. Her father reported +that his steak was high-test rawhide, and his +coffee—well, he wasn't sure just what substitute had +been used for chicory, but he thought it was lukewarm +quinine.</p> + +<p>Claire raged: "You know, this town really has +aspirations. They're beginning to build such nice +little bungalows, and there's a fine clean bank—— Then +they permit this scoundrel to advertise the town +among strangers, influential strangers, in motors, by +serving food like this! I suppose they think that they +arrest criminals here, yet this restaurant man is a thief, +to charge real money for food like this—— Yes, and +he's a murderer!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, come now, dolly!"</p> + +<p>"Yes he is, literally. He must in his glorious career +have given chronic indigestion to thousands of people—shortened +their lives by years. That's wholesale +murder. If I were the authorities here, I'd be indulgent +to the people who only murder one or two<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span> +people, but imprison this cook for life. Really! I +mean it!"</p> + +<p>"Well, he probably does the best he——"</p> + +<p>"He does not! These eggs and this bread were +perfectly good, before he did black magic over them. +And did you see the contemptuous look he gave me +when I was so eccentric as to order toast? Oh, Reaper, +Reaper, you desire a modern town, yet I wonder if you +know how many thousands of tourists go from coast +to coast, cursing you? If I could only hang that +restaurant man—and the others like him—in a rope +of his own hempen griddle cakes! The Great American +Frying Pan! I don't expect men building a new +town to have time to read Hugh Walpole and James +Branch Cabell, but I do expect them to afford a cook +who can fry eggs!"</p> + +<p>As she paid the check, Claire tried to think of some +protest which would have any effect on the obese wits +of the restaurant man. In face of his pink puffiness +she gave it up. Her failure as a Citizeness Fixit sent +her out of the place in a fury, carried her on in a dusty +whirl till the engine spat, sounded tired and reflective, +and said it guessed it wouldn't go any farther that +day.</p> + +<p>Now that she had something to do, Claire became +patient. "Run out of gas. Isn't it lucky I got that +can for an extra gallon?"</p> + +<p>But there was plenty of gas. There was no discernible<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span> +reason why the car should not go. She started +the engine. It ran for half a minute and quit. All +the plugs showed sparks. No wires were detached in +the distributor. There was plenty of water, and the +oil was not clogged. And that ended Claire's knowledge +of the inside of a motor.</p> + +<p>She stopped two motorists. The first was sure that +there was dirt on the point of the needle valve, in the +carburetor. While Claire shuddered lest he never get +it back, he took out the needle valve, wiped it, put it +back—and the engine was again started, and again, +with great promptness, it stopped.</p> + +<p>The second Good Samaritan knew that one of the +wires in the distributor must be detached and, though +she assured him that she had inspected them, he looked +pityingly at her smart sports-suit, said, "Well, I'll +just take a look," and removed the distributor cover. +He also scratched his head, felt of the fuses under the +cowl, scratched his cheek, poked a finger at the carburetor, +rubbed his ear, said, "Well, uh——" looked to +see if there was water and gas, sighed, "Can't just +seem to find out what's the trouble," shot at his own +car, and escaped.</p> + +<p>Claire had been highly grateful and laudatory to +both of them—but she remained here, ten miles from +nowhere. It was a beautiful place. Down a hill the +wheat swam toward a village whose elevator was a +glistening tower. Mud-hens gabbled in a slew, alfalfa<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span> +shone with unearthly green, and bees went junketing +toward a field of red clover. But she had the motorist's +fever to go on. The road behind and in front +was very long, very white—and very empty.</p> + +<p>Her father, out of much thought and a solid ignorance +about all of motoring beyond the hiring of +chauffeurs and the payment of bills, suggested, "Uh, +dolly, have you looked to see if these, uh—— Is the +carburetor all right?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, dear; I've looked at it three times, so far," +she said, just a little too smoothly.</p> + +<p>On the hill five miles to eastward, a line of dust, then +a small car. As it approached, the driver must have +sighted her and increased speed. He came up at +thirty-five miles an hour.</p> + +<p>"Now we'll get something done! Look! It's a +bug—a flivver or a Teal or something. I believe it's +the young man that got us out of the mud."</p> + +<p>Milt Daggett stopped, casually greeted them: "Why, +hello, Miss Boltwood. Thought you'd be way ahead +of me some place!"</p> + +<p>"Mrwr," said Vere de Vere. What this meant the +historian does not know.</p> + +<p>"No; I've been taking it easy. Mr., Uh—I can't +quite remember your name——"</p> + +<p>"Milt Daggett."</p> + +<p>"There's something mysterious the matter with my +car. The engine will start, after it's left alone a while,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span> +but then it stalls. Do you suppose you could tell what +it is?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know. I'll see if I can find out."</p> + +<p>"Then you probably will. The other two men knew +everything. One of them was the inventor of wheels, +and the other discovered skidding. So of course they +couldn't help me."</p> + +<p>Milt added nothing to her frivolity, but his smile +was friendly. He lifted the round rubber cap of the +distributor. Then Claire's faith tumbled in the dust. +Twice had the wires been tested. Milt tested them +again. She was too tired of botching to tell him he +was wasting time.</p> + +<p>"Got an oil can?" he hesitated.</p> + +<p>Through a tiny hole in the plate of the distributor he +dripped two drops of oil—only two drops. "I guess +maybe that's what it needed. You might try her now, +and see how she runs," he said mildly.</p> + +<p>Dubiously Claire started the engine. It sang jubilantly, +and it did not stop. Again was the road open +to her. Again was the settlement over there, to which +it would have taken her an hour to walk, only six minutes +away.</p> + +<p>She stopped the engine, beamed at him—there in the +dust, on the quiet hilltop. He said as apologetically +as though he had been at fault, "Distributor got +dry. Might give it a little oil about once in six +months."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span>"We are so grateful to you! Twice now you've +saved our lives."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I guess you'd have gone on living! And if +drivers can't help each other, who can?"</p> + +<p>"That's a good start toward world-fellowship, I +suppose. I wish we could do—— Return your lunch +or—— Mr. Daggett! Do you read books? I +mean——"</p> + +<p>"Yes I do, when I run across them."</p> + +<p>"Mayn't I gi—lend you these two that I happen +to have along? I've finished them, and so has father, +I think."</p> + +<p>From the folds of the strapped-down top she pulled +out Compton Mackenzie's <i>Youth's Encounter</i>, and +Vachel Lindsay's <i>Congo</i>. With a curious faint excitement +she watched him turn the leaves. His blunt +fingers flapped through them as though he was used +to books. As he looked at <i>Congo</i>, he exclaimed, +"Poetry! That's fine! Like it, but I don't hardly +ever run across it. I—— Say—— I'm terribly +obliged!"</p> + +<p>His clear face lifted, sun-brown and young and +adoring. She had not often seen men look at her +thus. Certainly Jeff Saxton's painless worship did +not turn him into the likeness of a knight among banners. +Yet the good Geoffrey loved her, while to Milt +Daggett she could be nothing more than a strange +young woman in a car with a New York license. If<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span> +her tiny gift could so please him, how poor he must +be. "He probably lives on some barren farm," she +thought, "or he's a penniless mechanic hoping for a +good job in Seattle. How white his forehead is!"</p> + +<p>But aloud she was saying, "I hope you're enjoying +your trip."</p> + +<p>"Oh yes. I like it fine. You having a good time? +Well—— Well, thanks for the books."</p> + +<p>She was off before him. Presently she exclaimed +to Mr. Boltwood: "You know—just occurs to me—it's +rather curious that our young friend should be so +coincidental as to come along just when we needed +him."</p> + +<p>"Oh, he just happened to, I suppose," hemmed her +father.</p> + +<p>"I'm not so sure," she meditated, while she absently +watched another member of the Poultry Suicide +Club rush out of a safe ditch, prepare to take leave +for immortality, change her fowlish mind, flutter up +over the hood of the car, and come down squawking +her indignities to the barnyard. "I'm not so sure +about his happening—— No. I wonder if he could +possibly—— Oh no. I hope not. Flattering, but—— You +don't suppose he could be deliberately following +us?"</p> + +<p>"Nonsense! He's a perfectly decent young chap."</p> + +<p>"I know. Of course. He probably works hard in +a garage, and is terribly nice to his mother and sisters<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span> +at home. I mean—— I wouldn't want the dear lamb +to be a devoted knight, though. Too thankless a job."</p> + +<p>She slowed the car down to fifteen an hour. For +the first time she began to watch the road behind her. +In a few minutes a moving spot showed in the dust +three miles back. Oh, naturally; he would still be +behind her. Only—— If she stopped, just to look at +the scenery, he would go on ahead of her. She +stopped for a moment—for a time too brief to indicate +that anything had gone wrong with her car. Staring +back she saw that the bug stopped also, and she fancied +that Milt was out standing beside it, peering with his +palm over his eyes—a spy, unnatural and disturbing +in the wide peace.</p> + +<p>She drove on a mile and halted again; again halted +her attendant. He was keeping a consistent two to +four miles behind, she estimated.</p> + +<p>"This won't do at all," she worried. "Flattering, +but somehow—— Whatever sort of a cocoon-wrapped +hussy I am, I don't collect scalps. I won't +have young men serving me—graft on them—get +amusement out of their struggles. Besides—suppose +he became just a little more friendly, each time he +came up, all the way from here to Seattle?... Fresh.... No, +it won't do."</p> + +<p>She ran the car to the side of the road.</p> + +<p>"More trouble?" groaned her father.</p> + +<p>"No. Just want to see scenery."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span>"But—— There's a good deal of scenery on all +sides, without stopping, seems to me!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, but——" She looked back. Milt had come +into sight; had paused to take observations. Her +father caught it:</p> + +<p>"Oh, I see. Pardon me. Our squire still following? +Let him go on ahead? Wise lass."</p> + +<p>"Yes. I think perhaps it's better to avoid complications."</p> + +<p>"Of course." Mr. Boltwood's manner did not +merely avoid Milt; it abolished him.</p> + +<p>She saw Milt, after five minutes of stationary watching, +start forward. He came dustily rattling up with +a hail of "Distributor on strike again?" so cheerful +that it hurt her to dismiss him. But she had managed +a household. She was able to say suavely:</p> + +<p>"No, everything is fine. I'm sure it will be, now. +I'm afraid we are holding you back. You mustn't +worry about us."</p> + +<p>"Oh, that's all right," breezily. "Something might +go wrong. Say, is this poetry book——"</p> + +<p>"No, I'm sure nothing will go wrong now. You +mustn't feel responsible for us. But, uh, you understand +we're very grateful for what you have done +and, uh, perhaps we shall see each other in Seattle?" +She made it brightly interrogatory.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I see." His hands gripped the wheel. His +cheeks had been too ruddily tinted by the Dakota sun<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span> +to show a blush, but his teeth caught his lower lip. +He had no starter on his bug; he had in his embarrassment +to get out and crank. He did it quietly, not +looking at her. She could see that his hand trembled +on the crank. When he did glance at her, as he drove +off, it was apologetically, miserably. His foot was +shaking on the clutch pedal.</p> + +<p>The dust behind his car concealed him. For twenty +miles she was silent, save when she burst out to her +father, "I do hope you're enjoying the trip. It's so +easy to make people unhappy. I wonder—— No. +Had to be done."</p> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER VIII<br /> +THE DISCOVERY OF CANNED SHRIMPS AND HESPERIDES</h2> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">On</span> the morning when Milt Daggett had awakened +to sunshine in the woods north of Gopher +Prairie, he had discovered the golden age. As mile +on mile he jogged over new hills, without having to +worry about getting back to his garage in time to +repair somebody's car, he realized that for the past +two years he had forced himself to find contentment in +building up a business that had no future.</p> + +<p>Now he laughed and whooped; he drove with one +foot inelegantly and enchantingly up on the edge of +the cowl; he made Lady Vere de Vere bow to +astounded farmers; he went to the movies every +evening—twice, in Fargo; and when the chariot of the +young prince swept to the brow of a hill, he murmured, +not in the manner of a bug-driver but with a stinging +awe, "All that big country! Ours to see, puss! We'll +settle down some day and be solid citizens and raise +families and wheeze when we walk, but—— All those +hills to sail over and—— Come on! Lez sail!"</p> + +<p>Milt attended the motion pictures every evening, +and he saw them in a new way. As recently as one +week before he had preferred those earnest depictions +in which hard-working, moral actors shoot one another,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span> +or ride the most uncomfortable horses up mountainsides. +But now, with a mental apology to that +propagandist of lowbrowism, the absent Mac, he chose +the films in which the leading men wore evening +clothes, and no one ever did anything without being +assisted by a "man." Aside from the pictures Milt's +best tutors were traveling men. Though he measured +every cent, and for his campfire dinners bought modest +chuck steaks, he had at least one meal a day at a hotel, +to watch the traveling men.</p> + +<p>To Claire, traveling men were merely commercial +persons in hard-boiled suits. She identified them with +the writing-up of order-slips on long littered writing-tables, +and with hotels that reduced the delicate arts +of dining and sleeping to gray greasiness. But Milt +knew traveling men. He knew that not only were +they the missionaries of business, supplementing the +taking of orders by telling merchants how to build up +trade, how to trim windows and treat customers like +human beings; but also that they, as much as the local +ministers and doctors and teachers and newspapermen, +were the agents in spreading knowledge and +justice. It was they who showed the young men how +to have their hair cut—and to wash behind the ears +and shave daily; they who encouraged villagers to rise +from scandal and gossip to a perception of the Great +World, of politics and sports, and some measure of art +and science.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span>Claire, and indeed her father and Mr. Jeff Saxton as +well, had vaguely concluded that because drummers +were always to be seen in soggy hotels and badly connecting +trains and the headachy waiting-rooms of +stations, they must like these places. Milt knew that +the drummers were martyrs; that for months of a +trip, all the while thinking of the children back home, +they suffered from landlords and train schedules; that +they were Claire's best allies in fighting the Great +American Frying Pan; that they knew good things, +and fought against the laziness and impositions of +people who "kept hotel" because they had failed as +farmers; and that when they did find a landlord who +was cordial and efficient, they went forth mightily +advertising that glorious man. The traveling men, he +knew, were pioneers in spats.</p> + +<p>Hence it was to the traveling men, not to supercilious +tourists in limousines, that Milt turned for +suggestions as to how to perform the miracle of changing +from an ambitious boy into what Claire would +recognize as a charming man. He had not met enough +traveling men at Schoenstrom. They scooped up what +little business there was, and escaped from the Leipzig +House to spend the night at St. Cloud or Sauk Centre.</p> + +<p>In the larger towns in Minnesota and Dakota, after +evening movies, before slipping out to his roadside +camp Milt inserted himself into a circle of traveling +men in large leather chairs, and ventured, "Saw a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span> +Gomez-Dep with a New York license down the line +today."</p> + +<p>"Oh. You driving through?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. Going to Seattle."</p> + +<p>That distinguished Milt from the ordinary young-men-loafers, +and he was admitted as one of the assembly +of men who traveled and saw things and +wondered about the ways of men. It was good talk +he heard; too much of hotels, and too many tight +banal little phrases suggesting the solution of all +economic complexities by hanging "agitators," but +with this, an exciting accumulation of impressions of +Vancouver and San Diego, Florida and K. C.</p> + +<p>"That's a wonderful work farm they have at +Duluth," said one, and the next, "speaking of that, +I was in Chicago last week, and I saw a play——"</p> + +<p>Milt had, in his two years of high school in St. +Cloud, and in his boyhood under the genial but +abstracted eye of the Old Doctor, learned that it was +not well thought of to use the knife as a hod and to +plaster mashed potatoes upon it, as was the custom in +Mac's Old Home Lunch at Schoenstrom. But the +arts of courteously approaching oysters, salad, and +peas were rather unfamiliar to him. Now he studied +forks as he had once studied carburetors, and he gave +spiritual devotion to the nice eating of a canned-shrimp +cocktail—a lost legion of shrimps, now two thousand +miles and two years away from their ocean home.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span>He peeped with equal earnestness at the socks and +the shirts of the traveling men. Socks had been to +him not an article of faith but a detail of economy. +His attitude to socks had lacked in reverence and +technique. He had not perceived that socks may be +as sound a symbol of culture as the 'cello or even demountable +rims. He had been able to think with +respect of ties and damp piqué collars secured by gold +safety-pins; and to the belted fawn overcoat that the +St. Klopstock banker's son had brought back from St. +Paul, he had given jealous attention. But now he +graduated into differential socks.</p> + +<p>By his campfire, sighing to the rather somnolent +Vere de Vere, he scornfully yanked his extra pairs of +thick, white-streaked, yellow cotton socks from the +wicker suitcase, and uttered anathema:</p> + +<p>"Begone, ye unworthy and punk-looking raiment. +I know ye! Ye werst a bargain and two pairs for two +bits. But even as Adolph Zolzac and an agent for flivver +accessories are ye become in my eyes, ye generation +of vipers, ye clumsy, bag-footed, wrinkle-sided +gunny-sacking ye!"</p> + +<p>Next day, in the woods, a happy hobo found that +the manna-bringing ravens had left him four pairs of +good socks.</p> + +<p>Five quite expensive pairs of silk and lisle socks +Milt purchased—all that the general merchant at Jeppe +had in stock. What they lost in suitability to touring<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span> +and to private laundering at creeks, they gained +as symbols. Milt felt less shut out from the life of +leisure. Now, in Seattle, say, he could go into a good +hotel with less fear of the clerks.</p> + +<p>He added attractive outing shirts, ties neither too +blackly dull nor too flashily crimson, and a vicious +nail-brush which simply tore out the motor grease +that had grown into the lines of his hands. Also +he added a book.</p> + +<p>The book was a rhetoric. Milt knew perfectly that +there was an impertinence called grammar, but it had +never annoyed him much. He knew that many persons +preferred "They were" to "They was," and were +nervous in the presence of "ain't." One teacher in St. +Cloud had buzzed frightfully about these minutiæ. +But Milt discovered that grammar was only the beginning +of woes. He learned that there were such mental +mortgages as figures of speech and the choice of synonyms. +He had always known, but he had never passionately +felt that the invariable use of "hell," "doggone," +and "You bet!" left certain subtleties unexpressed. +Now he was finding subtleties which he +had to express.</p> + +<p>As joyously adventurous as going on day after day +was his experimentation in voicing his new observations. +He gave far more eagerness to it than Claire +Boltwood had. Gustily intoning to Vere de Vere, +who was the perfect audience, inasmuch as she never<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span> +had anything to say but "Mrwr," and didn't mind +being interrupted in that, he clamored, "The prairies +are the sea. In the distance they are kind of silvery—no—they +are dim silver; and way off on the skyline +are the Islands of the—of the—— Now what the devil +was them, were those, islands in the mythology book +in high school? Of the—Blessed? Great snakes' +boots, you're an ignorant cat, Vere! Hesperyds? No! +Hesperides! Yea, bo'! Now that man in the hotel: +'May I trouble you for the train guide? Thanks so +much!' But how much is so much?"</p> + +<p>As Claire's days were set free by her consciousness +of sun and brown earth, so Milt's odyssey was only +the more valorous in his endeavor to criticize life. He +saw that Mac's lunch room had not been an altogether +satisfactory home; that Mac's habit of saying to dissatisfied +customers, "If you don't like it, get out," had +lacked something of courtesy. Staring at towns along +the way, Milt saw that houses were not merely large +and comfortable, or small and stingy; but that there +was an interesting thing he remembered hearing his +teachers call "good taste."</p> + +<p>He was not the preoccupied Milt of the garage but +a gay-eyed gallant, the evening when he gave a lift to +the school-teacher and drove her from the district +school among the wild roses and the corn to her home +in the next town. She was a neat, tripping, trim-sided +school-teacher of nineteen or twenty.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span>"You're going out to Seattle? My! That's a wonderful +trip. Don't you get tired?" she adored.</p> + +<p>"Oh, no. And I'm seeing things. I used to think +everything worth while was right near my own town."</p> + +<p>"You're so wise to go places. Most of the boys I +know don't think there is any world beyond Jimtown +and Fargo."</p> + +<p>She glowed at him. Milt was saying to himself, +"Am I a fool? I probably could make this girl fall +in love with me. And she's better than I am; so darn +neat and clean and gentle. We'd be happy. She's a +nice comfy fire, and here I go like a boob, chasing after +a lone, cold star like Miss Boltwood, and probably I'll +fall into all the slews from hell to breakfast on the +way. But—— I'd get sleepy by a comfy fire."</p> + +<p>"Are you thinking hard? You're frowning so," +ventured the school-teacher.</p> + +<p>"Didn't mean to. 'Scuse!" he laughed. One hand +off the steering wheel, he took her hand—a fresh, +cool, virginal hand, snuggling into his, suddenly stirring +him. He wanted to hold it tighter. The lamenting +historian of love's pilgrimage must set down the +fact that the pilgrim for at least a second forgot the +divine tread of the goddess Claire, and made rapid +calculation that he could, in a pinch, drive from +Schoenstrom to the teacher's town in two days and a +night; that therefore courtship, and this sweet white +hand resting in his, were not impossible. Milt himself<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span> +did not know what it was that made him lay down the +hand and say, so softly that he was but half audible +through the rattle of the engine:</p> + +<p>"Isn't this a slick, mean to say glorious evening? +Sky rose and then that funny lavender. And that new +moon—— Makes me think of—the girl I'm in love +with."</p> + +<p>"You're engaged?" wistfully.</p> + +<p>"Not exactly but—— Say, did you study rhetoric in +Normal School? I have a rhetoric that's got all kind +of poetic extracts, you know, and quotations and +everything, from the big writers, Stevenson and all. +Always been so practical, making a garage pay, never +thought much about how I said things as long as I +could say 'No!' and say it quick. 'Cept maybe when +I was talking to the prof there. But it's great sport to +see how musical you can make a thing sound. Words. +Like Shenandoah. Gol-lee! Isn't that a wonderful +word? Makes you see old white mansion, and mocking +birds—— Wonder if a fellow could be a big +engineer, you know, build bridges and so on, and still +talk about, oh, beautiful things? What d' you think, +girlie?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I'm sure you could!"</p> + +<p>Her admiration, the proximity of her fragrant +slightness, was pleasant in the dusk, but he did not +press her hand again, even when she whispered, "Good +night, and thank you—oh, thank you."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span>If Milt had been driving at the rate at which he +usually made his skipjack carom over the roads about +Schoenstrom, he would by now have been through +Dakota, into Montana. But he was deliberately holding +down the speed. When he had been tempted by a +smooth stretch to go too breathlessly, he halted, teased +Vere de Vere, climbed out and, sitting on a hilltop, his +hands about his knees, drenched his soul with the +vision of amber distances.</p> + +<p>He tried so to time his progress that he might always +be from three to five miles behind Claire—distant +enough to be unnoticed, near enough to help in case +of need. For behind poetic expression and the use of +forks was the fact that his purpose in life was to know +Claire.</p> + +<p>When he was caught, when Claire informed him +that he "mustn't worry about her"; when, slowly, he +understood that she wasn't being neighborly and interested +in his making time, he wanted to escape, never +to see her again.</p> + +<p>For thirty miles his cheeks were fiery. He, most +considerate of roadmen, crowded a woman in a flivver, +passed a laboring car on an upgrade with such a burst +that the uneasy driver bumped off into a ditch. He +hadn't really seen them. Only mechanically had he +got past them. He was muttering:</p> + +<p>"She thought I was trying to butt in! Stung +again! Like a small boy in love with teacher. And I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span> +thought I was so wise! Cussed out Mac—blamed +Mac—no, damn all the fine words—cussed out Mac +for being the village rumhound. Boozing is twice as +sensible as me. See a girl, nice dress—start for +Seattle! Two thousand miles away! Of course she +bawled me out. She was dead right. Boob! Yahoo! +Goat!"</p> + +<p>He caught up Vere de Vere, rubbed her fur against +his cheek while he mourned, "Oh, puss, you got to be +nice to me. I thought I'd do big things. And then the +alarm clock went off. I'm back in Schoenstrom. For +keeps, I guess. I didn't know I had feelings that could +get hurt like this. Thought I had a rhinoceros +hide. But—— Oh, it isn't just feeling ashamed +over being a fool. It's that—— Won't ever see her +again. Not once. Way I saw her through the window, +at that hotel, in that blue silky dress—that +funny long line of buttons, and her throat. Never +have dinner—lunch—with her by the road——"</p> + +<p>In the reaction of anger he demanded of Vere de +Vere, "What the deuce do I care? If she's chump +enough to chase away a crack garage man that's gone +batty and wants to work for nothing, let her go on +and hit some crook garage and get stuck for an entire +overhauling. What do I care? Had nice trip; that's +all I wanted. Never did intend to go clear to Seattle, +anyway. Go on to Butte, then back home. No more +fussing about fool table-manners and books, and I certainly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span> +will cut out tagging behind her! No, sir! +Nev-er again!"</p> + +<p>It was somewhat inconsistent to add, "There's a +bully place—sneak in and let her get past me again. +But she won't catch me following next time!"</p> + +<p>While he tried to keep up his virtuous anger, he +was steering into an abandoned farmyard, parking +the car behind cottonwoods and neglected tall currant +bushes which would conceal it from the road.</p> + +<p>The windows of the deserted house stared at him; +a splintered screen door banged in every breeze. +Lichens leered from the cracks of the porch. The +yard was filled with a litter of cottonwood twigs, and +over the flower garden hulked ragged weeds. In the +rank grass about the slimy green lip of the well, +crickets piped derisively. The barn-door was open. +Stray kernels of wheat had sprouted between the +spokes of a rusty binder-wheel. A rat slipped across +the edge of the shattered manger. As dusk came on, +gray things seemed to slither past the upper windows +of the house, and somewhere, under the roof, there +was a moaning. Milt was sure that it was the wind +in a knothole. He told himself that he was absolutely +sure about it. And every time it came he stroked +Vere de Vere carefully, and once, when the moaning +ended in the slamming of the screen door, he said, +"Jiminy!"</p> + +<p>This boy of the unghostly cylinders and tangible<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span> +magnetos had never seen a haunted house. To toil of +the harvest field and machine shop and to trudging +the sun-beaten road he was accustomed, but he had +never crouched watching the slinking spirits of old +hopes and broken aspirations; feeble phantoms of the +first eager bridegroom who had come to this place, and +the mortgage-crushed, rust-wheat-ruined man who +had left it. He wanted to leap into the bug and go on. +Yet the haunt of murmurous memories dignified his +unhappiness. In the soft, tree-dimmed dooryard +among dry, blazing plains it seemed indecent to go on +growling "Gee," and "Can you beat it?" It was a +young poet, a poet rhymeless and inarticulate, who +huddled behind the shield of untrimmed currant +bushes, and thought of the girl he would never see +again.</p> + +<p>He was hungry, but he did not eat. He was +cramped, but he did not move. He picked up the books +she had given him. He was quickened by the powdery +beauty of <i>Youth's Encounter</i>; by the vision of laughter +and dancing steps beneath a streaky gas-glow in the +London fog; of youth not "roughhousing" and wanting +to "be a sport," yet in frail beauty and faded +crimson banners finding such exaltation as Schoenstrom +had never known. But every page suggested +Claire, and he tucked the book away.</p> + +<p>In Vachel Lindsay's <i>Congo</i>, in a poem called "The +Santa Fe Trail," he found his own modern pilgrimage<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span> +from another point of view. Here was the poet, disturbed +by the honking hustle of passing cars. But +Milt belonged to the honking and the hustle, and it +was not the soul of the grass that he read in the poem, +but his own sun-flickering flight:</p> + +<div class="poem" style="width: 21em;"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Swiftly the brazen car comes on.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It burns in the East as the sunrise burns.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I see great flashes where the far trail turns.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Butting through the delicate mists of the morning,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It comes like lightning, goes past roaring,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">It will hail all the windmills, taunting, ringing,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">On through the ranges the prairie-dog tills—<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Scooting past the cattle on the thousand hills.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ho for the tear-horn, scare-horn, dare-horn,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Ho for the gay-horn, bark-horn, bay-horn.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Milt did not reflect that if the poet had watched the +Teal bug go by, he would not have recorded a scare-horn, +a dare-horn, or anything mightier than a yip-horn. +Milt saw himself a cross-continent racer, with +the envious poet, left behind as a dot on the hill, celebrating +his passing.</p> + +<p>"Lord!" he cried. "I didn't know there were +books like these! Thought poetry was all like Longfellow +and Byron. Old boys. Europe. And rhymed +bellyachin' about hard luck. But these books—they're +me." Very carefully: "No; they're I! And she gave +'em to me! I will see her again! But she won't know<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span> +it. Now be sensible, son! What do you expect? Oh—nothing. +I'll just go on, and sneak in one more +glimpse of her to take back with me where I belong."</p> + +<p>Half an hour after Claire had innocently passed his +ambush, he began to follow her. But not for days was +he careless. If he saw her on the horizon he paused +until she was out of sight. That he might not fail her +in need, he bought a ridiculously expensive pair of +field glasses, and watched her when she stopped by the +road. Once, when both her right rear tire and the +spare were punctured before she could make a town, +Milt from afar saw her patch a tube, pump up the tire +in the dust. He ached to go to her aid—though it +cannot be said that hand-pumping was his favorite +July afternoon sport.</p> + +<p>Lest he encounter her in the streets, he always +camped to the eastward of the town at which she spent +the night. After dusk, when she was likely to end the +day's drive in the first sizable place, he hid his bug in +an alley and, like a spy after the papers, sneaked into +each garage to see if her car was there.</p> + +<p>He would stroll in, look about vacuously, and pipe +to the suspicious night attendant, "Seen a traveling +man named Smith?" Usually the garage man snarled, +"No, I ain't seen nobody named Smith. An'thing +else I can do for you?" But once he was so unlucky +as to find the long-missing Mr. Smith!</p> + +<p>Mr. Smith was surprised and insistent. Milt had to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span> +do some quick lying. During that interview the cement +floor felt very hard under his fidgeting feet, and he +thought he heard the garage man in the office telephoning, +"Don't think he knows Smith at all. I got a +hunch he's that auto thief that was through here last +summer."</p> + +<p>When Claire did not stop in the first town she +reached after twilight, but drove on by dark, he had +to do some perilous galloping to catch up. The lights +of a Teal are excellent for adornment, but they have +no relation to illumination. They are dependent upon +a magneto which is dependent only upon faith.</p> + +<p>Once, skittering along by dark, he realized that the +halted car which he had just passed was the Gomez. +He thought he heard a shout behind him, but in a +panic he kept going.</p> + +<p>To the burring motor he groaned, "Now I probably +never will see her again. Except that she thinks I'm +such a pest that I dassn't let her know I'm in the same +state, I sure am one successful lover. As a Prince +Charming I win the Vanderbilt Cup. I'm going ahead +backwards so fast I'll probably drop off into the +Atlantic over the next hill!"</p> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER IX<br /> +THE MAN WITH AGATE EYES</h2> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">When</span> her car had crossed the Missouri River +on the swing-ferry between Bismarck and +Mandan, Claire had passed from Middle West to Far +West. She came out on an upland of virgin prairie, +so treeless and houseless, so divinely dipping, so rough +of grass, that she could imagine buffaloes still roving. +In a hollow a real prairie schooner was camped, and +the wandering homestead-seekers were cooking dinner +beside it. From a quilt on the hay in the wagon a +baby peeped, and Claire's heart leaped.</p> + +<p>Beyond was her first butte, its sharp-cut sides glittering +yellow, and she fancied that on it the Sioux +scout still sat sentinel, erect on his pony, the feather +bonnet down his back.</p> + +<p>Now she seemed to breathe deeper, see farther. +Again she came from unbroken prairie into wheat +country and large towns.</p> + +<p>Her impression of the new land was not merely of +sun-glaring breadth. Sometimes, on a cloudy day, the +wash of wheatlands was as brown and lowering and +mysterious as an English moor in the mist. It dwarfed +the far-off houses by its giant enchantment; its brooding +reaches changed her attitude of brisk, gas-driven<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span> +efficiency into a melancholy that was full of hints of +old dark beauty.</p> + +<p>Even when the sun came out, and the land was +brazenly optimistic, she saw more than just prosperity. +In a new home, house and barn and windmill square-cornered +and prosaic, plumped down in a field with +wheat coming up to the unporticoed door, a habitation +unshadowed, unsheltered, unsoftened, she found a +frank cleanness, as though the inhabitants looked +squarely out at life, unafraid. She felt that the keen +winds ought to blow away from such a prairie-fronting +post of civilization all mildew and cowardice, all +the mummy dust of ancient fears.</p> + +<p>These were not peasants, these farmers. Nor, she +learned, were they the "hicks" of humor. She could +never again encounter without fiery resentment the +Broadway peddler's faith that farmers invariably say +"Waal, by heck." For she had spent an hour talking +to one Dakota farmer, genial-eyed, quiet of speech. +He had explained the relation of alfalfa to soil-chemistry; +had spoken of his daughter, who taught economics +in a state university; and asked Mr. Boltwood +how turbines were hitched up on liners.</p> + +<p>In fact, Claire learned that there may be an almost +tolerable state of existence without gardenias or the +news about the latest Parisian imagists.</p> + +<p>She dropped suddenly from the vast, smooth-swelling +miles of wheatland into the tortured marvels of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span> +the Bad Lands, and the road twisted in the shadow of +flying buttresses and the terraced tombs of maharajas. +While she tried to pick her way through a herd of +wild, arroyo-bred cattle, she forgot her maneuvering +as she was startled by the stabbing scarlet of a column +of rock marking the place where for months deep +beds of lignite had burned.</p> + +<p>Claire had often given lifts to tramping harvesters +and even hoboes along the road; had enjoyed the sight +of their duffle-bags stuck up between the sleek fenders +and the hood, and their talk about people and crops +along the road, as they hung on the running-board. +In the country of long hillslopes and sentinel buttes +between the Dakota Bad Lands and Miles City she +stopped to shout to a man whose plodding heavy back +looked fagged, "Want a ride?"</p> + +<p>"Sure! You bet!"</p> + +<p>Usually her guests stepped on the right-hand running-board, +beside Mr. Boltwood, and this man was +far over on the right side of the road. But, while she +waited, he sauntered in front of the car, round to her +side, mounted beside her. Before the car had started, +she was sorry to have invited him. He looked her +over grinningly, almost contemptuously. His unabashed +eyes were as bright and hard as agates. Below +them, his nose was twisted a little, his mouth bent +insolently up at one corner, and his square long chin +bristled.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span>Usually, too, her passengers waited for her to start +the conversation, and talked at Mr. Boltwood rather +than directly to her. But the bristly man spat at her as +the car started, "Going far?"</p> + +<p>"Ye-es, some distance."</p> + +<p>"Expensive car?"</p> + +<p>"Why——"</p> + +<p>"'Fraid of getting held up?"</p> + +<p>"I hadn't thought about it."</p> + +<p>"Pack a cannon, don't you?"</p> + +<p>"I don't think I quite understand."</p> + +<p>"Cannon! Gun! Revolver! Got a revolver, of +course?"</p> + +<p>"W-why, no." She spoke uncomfortably. She was +aware that his twinkling eyes were on her throat. His +look made her feel unclean. She tried to think of some +question which would lead the conversation to the +less exclamatory subject of crops. They were on a +curving shelf road beside a shallow valley. The road +was one side of a horseshoe ten miles long. The unprotected +edge of it dropped sharply to fields forty or +fifty feet below.</p> + +<p>"Prosperous-looking wheat down there," she said.</p> + +<p>"No. Not a bit!" His look seemed to add, +"And you know it—unless you're a fool!"</p> + +<p>"Well, I didn't——"</p> + +<p>"Make Glendive tonight?"</p> + +<p>"At least that far."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span>"Say, lady, how's the chance for borrowin' a couple +of dollars? I was workin' for a Finnski back here a +ways, and he did me dirt—holdin' out my wages on +me till the end of the month."</p> + +<p>"Why, uh——"</p> + +<p>It was Claire, not the man, who was embarrassed.</p> + +<p>He was snickering, "Come on, don't be a tightwad. +Swell car—poor man with no eats, not even a two-bits +flop for tonight. Could yuh loosen up and slip +me just a couple bones?"</p> + +<p>Mr. Boltwood intervened. He looked as uncomfortable +as Claire. "We'll see. It's rather against my +principles to give money to an able-bodied man like +you, even though it is a pleasure to give you a +ride——"</p> + +<p>"Sure! Don't cost you one red cent!"</p> + +<p>"—and if I could help you get a job, though of +course—— Being a stranger out here—— Seems +strange to me, though," Mr. Boltwood struggled on, +"that a strong fellow like you should be utterly +destitute, when I see all these farmers able to have +cars——"</p> + +<p>Their guest instantly abandoned his attitude of +supplication for one of boasting: "Destitute? Who +the hell said I was destitute, heh?" He was snarling +across Claire at Mr. Boltwood. His wet face was +five inches from hers. She drew her head as far back +as she could. She was sure that the man completely<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span> +appreciated her distaste, for his eyes popped with +amusement before he roared on:</p> + +<p>"I got plenty of money! Just 'cause I'm hoofin' +it—— I don't want no charity from nobody! I could +buy out half these Honyockers! I don't need none of +no man's money!" He was efficiently working himself +into a rage. "Who you calling destitute? All I +wanted was an advance till pay day! Got a check +coming. You high-tone, kid-glove Eastern towerists +want to watch out who you go calling destitute. I bet +I make a lot more money than a lot of your four-flushin' +friends!"</p> + +<p>Claire wondered if she couldn't stop the car now, +and tell him to get off. But—that snapping eye was +too vicious. Before he got off he would say things—scarring, +vile things, that would never heal in her +brain. Her father was murmuring, "Let's drop him," +but she softly lied, "No. His impertinence amuses +me."</p> + +<p>She drove on, and prayed that he would of himself +leave his uncharitable hosts at the next town.</p> + +<p>The man was storming—with a very meek ending: +"I'm tellin' you! I can make money anywhere! I'm +a crack machinist.... Give me two-bits for a +meal, anyway."</p> + +<p>Mr. Boltwood reached in his change pocket. He had +no quarter. He pulled out a plump bill-fold. Without +looking at the man, Claire could vision his eyes<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span> +glistening and his chops dripping as he stared at the +hoard. Mr. Boltwood handed him a dollar bill. +"There, take that, and let's change the subject," said +Mr. Boltwood testily.</p> + +<p>"All right, boss. Say, you haven't got a cartwheel +instead of this wrapping paper, have you? I like to +feel my money in my pocket."</p> + +<p>"No, sir, I have not!"</p> + +<p>"All right, boss. No bad feelin's!"</p> + +<p>Then he ignored Mr. Boltwood. His eyes focused +on Claire's face. To steady himself on the running-board +he had placed his left hand on the side of the +car, his right on the back of the seat. That right +hand slid behind her. She could feel its warmth on +her back.</p> + +<p>She burst out, flaring, "Kindly do not touch me!"</p> + +<p>"Gee, did I touch you, girlie? Why, that's a +shame!" he drawled, his cracked broad lips turning +up in a grin.</p> + +<p>An instant later, as they skipped round a bend of +the long, high-hung shelf road, he pretended to sway +dangerously on the running-board, and deliberately +laid his filthy hand on her shoulder. Before she could +say anything he yelped in mock-regret, "Love o' +Mike! 'Scuse me, lady. I almost fell off."</p> + +<p>Quietly, seriously, Claire said, "No, that wasn't +accidental. If you touch me again, I'll stop the car +and ask you to walk."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span>"Better do it now, dolly!" snapped Mr. Boltwood.</p> + +<p>The man hooked his left arm about the side-post of +the open window-shield. It was a strong arm, a firm +grip. He seized her left wrist with his free hand. +Though all the while his eyes grotesquely kept their +amused sparkle, and beside them writhed laughter-wrinkles, +he shouted hoarsely, "You'll stop hell!" +His hand slid from her wrist to the steering wheel. "I +can drive this boat's well as you can. You make one +move to stop, and I steer her over—— Blooie! Down +the bank!"</p> + +<p>He did twist the front wheels dangerously near to +the outer edge of the shelf road. Mr. Boltwood gazed +at the hand on the wheel. With a quick breath Claire +looked at the side of the road. If the car ran off, it +would shoot down forty feet ... turning over and +over.</p> + +<p>"Y-you wouldn't dare, because you'd g-go, too!" +she panted.</p> + +<p>"Well, dearuh, you just try any monkey business +and you'll find out how much I'll gggggggo-too! I'll +start you down the joy-slope and jump off, savvy? +Take your foot off that clutch."</p> + +<p>She obeyed.</p> + +<p>"Pretty lil feet, ain't they, cutie! Shoes cost +about twelve bucks, I reckon. While a better man +than you or old moldy-face there has to hit the pike +in three-dollar brogans. Sit down, yuh fool!"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span>This last to Mr. Boltwood, who had stood up, +swaying with the car, and struck at him. With a +huge arm the man swept Mr. Boltwood back into the +seat, but without a word to her father, he continued +to Claire:</p> + +<p>"And keep your hand where it belongs. Don't go +trying to touch that switch. Aw, be sensible! What +would you do if the car did stop? I could blackjack +you both before this swell-elegant vehickle lost momentum, +savvy? I don't want to pay out my good +money to a lawyer on a charge of—murder. Get me? +Better take it easy and not worry." His hand was +constantly on the wheel. He had driven cars before. +He was steering as much as she. "When I get you up +the road a piece I'm going to drive all the cute lil +boys and girls up a side trail, and take all of papa's +gosh-what-a-wad in the cunnin' potet-book, and I guess +we'll kiss lil daughter, and drive on, a-wavin' our +hand politely, and let you suckers walk to the next +burg."</p> + +<p>"You wouldn't dare! You wouldn't dare!"</p> + +<p>"Dare? Huh! Don't make the driver laugh!"</p> + +<p>"I'll get help!"</p> + +<p>"Yep. Sure. Fact, there's a car comin' toward +us. 'Bout a mile away I'd make it, wouldn't you? +Well, dollface, if you make one peep—over the bank +you go, both of you dead as a couplin'-pin. Smeared +all over those rocks. Get me? And me—I'll be sorry<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span> +the regrettable accident was so naughty and went and +happened—and I just got off in time meself. And I'll +pinch papa's poke while I'm helping get out the +bodies!"</p> + +<p>Till now she hadn't believed it. But she dared not +glance at the approaching car. It was their interesting +guest who steered the Gomez past the other; and he +ran rather too near the edge of the road ... so +that she looked over, down.</p> + +<p>Beaming, he went on, "I'd pull the rough stuff right +here, instead of wastin' my time as a cap'n of industry +by taking you up to see the scenery in that daisy little +gully off the road; but the whole world can see us +along here—the hicks in the valley and anybody that +happens to sneak along in a car behind us. Shame the +way this road curves—see too far along it. Fact, +you're giving me a lot of trouble. But you'll give me +a kiss, won't you, Gwendolyn?"</p> + +<p>He bent down, chuckling. She could feel his bristly +chin touch her cheek. She sprang up, struck at him. +He raised his hand from the wheel. For a second the +car ran without control. He jabbed her back into the +seat with his elbow. "Don't try any more monkey-shines, +if you know what's good for you," he said, +quite peacefully, as he resumed steering.</p> + +<p>She was in a haze, conscious only of her father's +hand fondling hers. She heard a quick pit-pit-pit-pit +behind them. Car going to pass? She'd have to let it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span> +go by. She'd concentrate on finding something she +could——</p> + +<p>Then, "Hello, folks. Having a picnic? Who's +your little friend in the rompers?" sang out a voice +beside them. It was Milt Daggett—the Milt who +must be scores of miles ahead. His bug had caught +up with them, was running even with them on the +broad road.</p> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER X<br /> +THE CURIOUS INCIDENT OF THE HILLSIDE ROAD</h2> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">So</span> unexpectedly, so genially, that Claire wondered +if he realized what was happening, Milt chuckled +to the tough on the running-board, as the two cars +ran side by side, "Bound for some place, brother?"</p> + +<p>The unwelcome guest looked puzzled. For the +first time his china eyes ceased twinkling; and he +answered dubiously: "Just gettin' a lift." He sped up +the car with the hand-throttle. Milt accelerated +equally.</p> + +<p>Claire roused; wanted to shout. She was palsied +afraid that Milt would leave them. The last time she +had seen him, she had suggested that leaving them +would be a favor.</p> + +<p>Her guest growled at her—the words coming +through a slit at the corner of his rowdy mouth, "Sit +still, or I'll run you over."</p> + +<p>Milt innocently babbled on, "Better come ride with +me, bo'. More room in this-here handsome coupelet."</p> + +<p>Then was the rough relieved in his uneasy tender +little heart, and his eyes flickered again as he shouted +back, not looking at Milt, "Thanks, bub, I'll stick by +me friends."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span>"Oh no; can't lose pleasure of your company. I +like your looks. You're a bloomin' little island +way off on the dim silver skyline." Claire knitted +her brows. She had not seen Milt's rhetoric. "You're +an island of Hesperyds or Hesperides. Accent on the +bezuzus. Oh, yes, moondream, I think you better +come. Haven't decided"—Milt's tone was bland—"whether +to kill you or just have you pinched. Miss +Boltwood! Switch off your power!"</p> + +<p>"If she does," the tough shouted, "I'll run 'em off +the bank."</p> + +<p>"No, you won't, sweetheart, 'cause why? 'Cause +what'll I do to you afterwards?"</p> + +<p>"You won't do nothin', Jack, 'cause I'd gouge your +eyes out."</p> + +<p>"Why, lovesoul, d' you suppose I'd be talking up +as brash as this to a bid, stwong man like oo if I +didn't have a gun handy?"</p> + +<p>"Yuh, I guess so, lil sunbeam. And before you +could shoot, I'd crowd your tin liz into the bank, and +jam right into it! I may get killed, but you won't +even be a grease-spot!"</p> + +<p>He was turning the Gomez from its straight course, +forcing Milt's bug toward the high bank of earth +which walled in the road on the left.</p> + +<p>While Claire was very sick with fear, then more +sick with contempt, Milt squealed, "You win!" And +he had dropped back. The Gomez was going on alone.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span>There was only one thing more for Claire—to jump. +And that meant death.</p> + +<p>The tough was storming, "Your friend's a crack +shot—with his mouth!"</p> + +<p>The thin pit-pit-pit was coming again. She looked +back. She saw Milt's bug snap forward so fast that +on a bump its light wheels were in the air. She saw +Milt standing on the right side of the bug holding the +wheel with one hand, and the other hand—firm, grim, +broad-knuckled hand—outstretched toward the tough, +then snatching at his collar.</p> + +<p>The tough's grip was torn from the steering wheel. +He was yanked from the running-board. He crunched +down on the road.</p> + +<p>She seized the wheel. She drove on at sixty miles +an hour. She had gone a good mile before she got +control of her fear and halted. She saw Milt turn +his little car as though it were a prancing bronco. It +seemed to paw the air with its front wheels. He shot +back, pursuing the late guest. The man ran bobbing +along the road. At this distance he was no longer +formidable, but a comic, jerking, rabbity figure, humping +himself over the back track.</p> + +<p>As the bug whirled down on him, the tough was to +be seen throwing up his hands, leaping from the high +bank.</p> + +<p>Milt turned again and came toward them, but +slowly; and after he had drawn up even and switched<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span> +off the engine, he snatched off his violent plaid cap +and looked apologetic.</p> + +<p>"Sorry I had to kid him along. I was afraid he +really would drive you off the bank. He was a bad +actor. And he was right; he could have licked me. +Thought maybe I could jolly him into getting off, and +have him pinched, next town."</p> + +<p>"But you had a gun—a revolver—didn't you, +lad?" panted Mr. Boltwood.</p> + +<p>"Um, wellllll—— I've got a shotgun. It wouldn't +take me more 'n five or ten minutes to dig it out, and +put it together. And there's some shells. They may +be all right. Haven't looked at 'em since last fall. +They didn't get so awful damp then."</p> + +<p>"But suppose he'd had a revolver himself?" wailed +Claire.</p> + +<p>"Gee, you know, I thought he probably did have +one. I was scared blue. I had a wrench to throw at +him though," confided Milt.</p> + +<p>"How did you know we needed you?"</p> + +<p>"Why back there, couple miles behind you, maybe I +saw your father get up and try to wrestle him, so I +suspected there was kind of a disagreement. Say, +Miss Boltwood, you know when you spoke to me—way +back there—I hadn't meant to butt in. Honest. +I thought maybe as we were going——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I know!"</p> + +<p>"—the same way, you wouldn't mind my trailing,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span> +if I didn't sit in too often; and I thought maybe I +could help you if——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I know! I'm so ashamed! So bitterly +ashamed! I just meant—— Will you forgive me? +You were so good, taking care of us——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, sure, that's all right!"</p> + +<p>"I fancy you do know how grateful father and I +are that you were behind us, this time! Wasn't it a +lucky accident that we'd slipped past you some place!"</p> + +<p>"Yes," dryly, "quite an accident. Well, I'll skip +on ahead again. May run into you again before we +hit Seattle. Going to take the run through Yellowstone +Park?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, but——" began Claire. Her father interrupted:</p> + +<p>"Uh, Mr., uh—Daggett, was it?—I wonder if you +won't stay a little closer to us hereafter? I was getting +rather a good change out of the trip, but I'm +afraid that now—— If it wouldn't be an insult, I'd +beg you to consider staying with us for a consideration, +uh, you know, remuneration, and you could——"</p> + +<p>"Thanks, uh, thank you, sir, but I wouldn't like to +do it. You see, it's kind of my vacation. If I've done +anything I'm tickled——"</p> + +<p>"But perhaps," Mr. Boltwood ardently begged the +young man recently so abysmally unimportant, "perhaps +you would consent to being my guest, when you +cared to—say at hotels in the Park."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span>"'Fraid I couldn't. I'm kind of a lone wolf."</p> + +<p>"Please! Pretty please!" besought Claire. Her +smile was appealing, her eyes on his.</p> + +<p>Milt bit his knuckles. He looked weak. But he +persisted, "No, you'll get over this scrap with our +friend. By the way, I'll put the deputy onto him, in +the next town. He'll never get out of the county. +When you forget him—— Oh no, you can go on fine. +You're a good steady driver, and the road's perfectly +safe—if you give people the once-over before you pick +'em up. Picking up badmen is no more dangerous +here than it would be in New York. Fact, there's lot +more hold-ups in any city than in the wildest country. +I don't think you showed such awfully good taste in +asking Terrible Tim, the two-gun man, right into the +parlor. Gee, please don't do it again! Please!"</p> + +<p>"No," meekly. "I was an idiot. I'll be good, +next time. But won't you stay somewhere near us?"</p> + +<p>"I'd like to, but I got to chase on. Don't want to +wear out the welcome on the doormat, and I'm due in +Seattle, and—— Say, Miss Boltwood." He swung +out of the bug, cranked up, climbed back, went awkwardly +on, "I read those books you gave me. They're +slick—mean to say, interesting. Where that young +fellow in <i>Youth's Encounter</i> wanted to be a bishop +and a soldier and everything—— Just like me, except +Schoenstrom is different, from London, some ways! +I always wanted to be a brakie, and then a yeggman.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span> +But I wasn't bright enough for either. I just became +a garage man. And I—— Some day I'm going to +stop using slang. But it'll take an operation!"</p> + +<p>He was streaking down the road, and Claire was +sobbing, "Oh, the lamb, the darling thing! Fretting +about his slang, when he wasn't afraid in that horrible +nightmare. If we could just do something for him!"</p> + +<p>"Don't you worry about him, dolly. He's a very +energetic chap. And—— Uh—— Mightn't we +drive on a little farther, perhaps? I confess that the +thought of our recent guest still in this vicinity——"</p> + +<p>"Yes, and—— Oh, I'm shameless. If Mohammed +Milton won't stay with our car mountain, we're going +to tag after him."</p> + +<p>But when she reached the next hill, with its far +shining outlook, there was no Milt and no Teal bug +on the road ahead.</p> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER XI<br /> +SAGEBRUSH TOURISTS OF THE GREAT HIGHWAY</h2> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">She</span> had rested for two days in Miles City; had +seen the horse-market, with horse-wranglers in +chaps; had taken dinner with army people at Fort +Keogh, once the bulwark against the Sioux, now nodding +over the dry grass on its parade ground.</p> + +<p>By the Yellowstone River, past the Crow reservation, +Claire had driven on through the Real West, +along the Great Highway. The Red Trail and the +Yellowstone Trail had joined now and she was one of +the new Canterbury Pilgrims. Even Mr. Boltwood +caught the trick of looking for licenses, and cried, +"There's a Connecticut car!"</p> + +<p>To the Easterner, a drive from New York to Cape +Cod, over asphalt, is viewed as heroic, but here were +cars that had casually started on thousand-mile vacations. +She kept pace not only with large cars touring +from St. Louis or Detroit to Glacier Park and Yellowstone, +but also she found herself companionable with +families of workmen, headed for a new town and a +new job, and driving because a flivver, bought second-hand +and soon to be sold again, was cheaper than +trains.</p> + +<p>"Sagebrush Tourists" these camping adventurers<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span> +were called. Claire became used to small cars, with +curtain-lights broken, bearing wash-boilers or refrigerators +on the back, pasteboard suitcases lashed by +rope to the running-board, frying pans and canvas +water bottles dangling from top-rods. And once +baby's personal laundry was seen flapping on a line +across a tonneau!</p> + +<p>In each car was what looked like the crowd at a +large farm-auction—grandfather, father, mother, a +couple of sons and two or three daughters, at least +one baby in the arms of each grown-up, all jammed +into two seats already filled with trunks and baby-carriages. +And they were happy—incredibly happier +than the smart people being conveyed in a bored way +behind chauffeurs.</p> + +<p>The Sagebrush Tourists made camp; covered the +hood with a quilt from which the cotton was oozing; +brought out the wash-boiler, did a washing, had dinner, +sang about the fire; granther and the youngest +baby gamboling together, while the limousinvalids, insulated +from life by plate glass, preserved by their +steady forty an hour from the commonness of seeing +anything along the road, looked out at the campers +for a second, sniffed, rolled on, wearily wondering +whether they would find a good hotel that night—and +why the deuce they hadn't come by train.</p> + +<p>If Claire Boltwood had been protected by Jeff +Saxton or by a chauffeur, she, too, would probably<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span> +have marveled at cars gray with dust, the unshaved +men in fleece-lined duck coats, and the women wind-burnt +beneath the boudoir caps they wore as motoring +bonnets. But Claire knew now that filling grease-cups +does not tend to delicacy of hands; that when you +wash with a cake of petrified pink soap and half a +pitcher of cold hard water, you never quite get the +stain off—you merely get through the dust stratum +to the Laurentian grease formation, and mutter, "a +nice clean grease doesn't hurt food," and go sleepily +down to dinner.</p> + +<p>She saw a dozen camping devices unknown to the +East: trailers, which by day bobbed along behind the +car like coffins on two wheels, but at night opened into +tents with beds, an ice-box, a table; tents covering a +bed whose head rested on the running-board; beds +made-up in the car, with the cushions as mattresses.</p> + +<p>The Great Transcontinental Highway was colored +not by motors alone. It is true that the Old West of +the stories is almost gone; that Billings, Miles City, +Bismarck, are more given to Doric banks than to +gambling hells. But still are there hints of frontier +days. Still trudge the prairie schooners; cowpunchers +in chaps still stand at the doors of log cabins—when +they are tired of playing the automatic piano; and +blanket Indians, Blackfeet and Crows, stare at five-story +buildings—when they are not driving modern +reapers on their farms.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span>They all waved to Claire. Telephone linemen, lolling +with pipes and climber-strapped legs in big trucks, +sang out to her; traction engine crews shouted; and +these she found to be her own people. Only once did +she lose contentment—when, on the observation platform +of a train bound for Seattle, she saw a Britisher +in flannels and a monocle, headed perhaps for the +Orient. As the train slipped silkenly away, the Gomez +seemed slow and clumsy, and the strain of driving +intolerable. And that Britisher must be charming—— Then +a lonely, tight-haired woman in the doorway of +a tar-paper shack waved to her, and in that wistful +gesture Claire found friendship.</p> + +<p>And sometimes in the "desert" of yet unbroken +land she paused by the Great Highway and forgot +the passion to keep going——</p> + +<p>She sat on a rock, by a river so muddy that it was +like yellow milk. The only trees were a bunch of cottonwoods +untidily scattering shreds of cotton, and +the only other vegetation left in the dead world was +dusty green sagebrush with lumps of gray yet pregnant +earth between, or a few exquisite green and white +flashes of the herb called Snow-on-the-Mountain. The +inhabitants were jackrabbits, or American magpies in +sharp black and white livery, forever trying to balance +their huge tails against the wind, and yelling in low-magpie +their opinion of tourists.</p> + +<p>She did not desire gardens, then, nor the pettiness<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span> +of plump terraced hills. She was in the Real West, +and it was hers, since she had won to it by her own +plodding. Her soul—if she hadn't had one, it would +immediately have been provided, by special arrangement, +the moment she sat there—sailed with the hawks +in the high thin air, and when it came down it sang +hallelujahs, because the sagebrush fragrance was more +healing than piney woods, because the sharp-bitten +edges of the buttes were coral and gold and basalt and +turquoise, and because a real person, one Milt Daggett, +though she would never see him again, had found her +worthy of worship.</p> + +<p>She did not often think of Milt; she did not know +whether he was ahead of her, or had again dropped +behind. When she did recall him, it was with respect +quite different from the titillation that dancing men +had sometimes aroused, or the impression of manicured +agreeableness and efficiency which Jeff Saxton +carried about.</p> + +<p>She always supplicated the mythical Milt in moments +of tight driving. Driving, just the actual getting on, +was her purpose in life, and the routine of driving was +her order of the day: Morning freshness, rolling up +as many miles as possible before lunch, that she might +loaf afterward. The invariable two <span class="smcapl">P.M.</span> discovery +that her eyes ached, and the donning of huge amber +glasses, which gave to her lithe smartness a counterfeit +scholarliness. Toward night, the quarter-hour of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span> +level sun-glare which prevented her seeing the road. +Dusk, and the discovery of how much light there was +after all, once she remembered to take off her glasses. +The worst quarter-hour when, though the roads were +an amethyst rich to the artist, they were also a murkiness +exasperating to the driver, yet still too light to be +thrown into relief by the lamps. The mystic moment +when night clicked tight, and the lamps made a fan +of gold, and Claire and her father settled down to +plodding content—and no longer had to take the +trouble of admiring the scenery!</p> + +<p>The morning out of Billings, she wondered why a +low cloud so persistently held its shape, and realized +that it was a far-off mountain, her first sight of the +Rockies. Then she cried out, and wished for Milt to +share her exultation. Rather earnestly she said to +Mr. Boltwood:</p> + +<p>"The mountains must be so wonderful to Mr. Daggett, +after spending his life in a cornfield. Poor Milt! +I hope——"</p> + +<p>"I don't think you need to worry about that young +man. I fancy he's quite able to run about by himself, +as jolly as a sand-dog. And—— Of course I'm extremely +grateful to him for his daily rescue of us from +the jaws of death, but he was right; if he had stayed +with us, it would have been inconvenient to keep +considering him. He isn't accustomed to the comedy +of manners——"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span>"He ought to be. He'd enjoy it so. He's the real +American. He has imagination and adaptability. It's +a shame: all the <i>petits fours</i> and Bach recitals wasted +on Jeff Saxton, when a Milt Dag——"</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes, quite so!"</p> + +<p>"No, honest! The dear honey-lamb, so ingenious, +and really, rather good-looking. But so lonely and +gregarious—like a little woolly dog that begs you to +come and play; and I slapped him when he patted his +paws and gamboled—— It was horrible. I'll never +forgive myself. Making him drive on ahead in that +nasty, patronizing way—— I feel as if we'd spoiled +his holiday. I wonder if he had intended to make the +Yellowstone Park trip? He didn't——"</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes. Let's forget the young man. Look! +How very curious!"</p> + +<p>They were crossing a high bridge over a railroad +track along which a circus train was bending. Mr. +Boltwood offered judicious remarks upon the migratory +habits of circuses, and the vision of the Galahad +of the Teal bug was thoroughly befogged by parental +observations, till Claire returned from youthful +romance to being a sensible Boltwood, and decided that +after all, Milt was not a lord of the sky-painted mountains.</p> + +<p>Before they bent south, at Livingston, Claire had +her first mountain driving, and once she had to ford a +stream, putting the car at it, watching the water curve<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span> +up in a lovely silver veil. She felt that she was conquering +the hills as she had the prairies.</p> + +<p>She pulled up on a plateau to look at her battery. +She noted the edge of a brake-band peeping beyond the +drum, in a ragged line of fabric and copper wire. +Then she knew that she didn't know enough to conquer. +"Do you suppose it's dangerous?" she asked +her father, who said a lot of comforting things that +didn't mean anything.</p> + +<p>She thought of Milt. She stopped a passing car. +The driver "guessed" that the brake-band was all +gone, and that it would be dangerous to continue with +it along mountain roads. Claire dustily tramped two +miles to a ranch house, and telephoned to the nearest +garage, in a town called Saddle Back.</p> + +<p>Whenever a motorist has delirium he mutters those +lamentable words, "Telephoned to the nearest garage."</p> + +<p>She had to wait a tedious hour before she saw a +flivver rattling up with the garage man, who wasn't a +man at all, but a fourteen-year-old boy. He snorted, +"Rats, you didn't need to send for me. Could have +made it perfectly safe. Come on."</p> + +<p>Never has the greatest boy pianist received such awe +as Claire gave to this contemptuous young god, with +grease on his peachy cheeks. She did come on. But +she rather hoped that she was in great danger. It +was humiliating to telephone to a garage for nothing. +When she came into the gas-smelling garage in Saddle<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span> +Back she said appealingly to the man in charge, a serious, +lip-puffing person of forty-five, "Was it safe to +come in with the brake-band like that?"</p> + +<p>"No. Pretty risky. Wa'n't it, Mike?"</p> + +<p>The Mike to whom he turned for authority was the +same fourteen-year-old boy. He snapped, "Heh? +That? Naw! Put in new band. Get busy. Bring +me the jack. Hustle up, uncle."</p> + +<p>While the older man stood about and vainly tried +to impress people who came in and asked questions +which invariably had to be referred to his repair boy, +the precocious expert stripped the wheel down to +something that looked to Claire distressingly like an +empty milk-pan. Then the boy didn't seem to know +exactly what to do. He scratched his ear a good deal, +and thought deeply. The older man could only scratch.</p> + +<p>So for two hours Claire and her father experienced +that most distressing of motor experiences—waiting, +while the afternoon that would have been so good for +driving went by them. Every fifteen minutes they +came in from sitting on a dry-goods box in front of +the garage, and never did the repair appear to be any +farther along. The boy seemed to be giving all his +time to getting the wrong wrench, and scolding the +older man for having hidden the right one.</p> + +<p>When she had left Brooklyn Heights, Claire had +not expected to have such authoritative knowledge of +the Kalifornia Kandy Kitchen, Saddle Back, Montana,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span> +across from Tubbs' Garage, that she could tell whether +they were selling more Atharva Cigarettes or Polutropons. +She prowled about the garage till she knew +every pool of dripped water in the tin pail of soft +soap in the iron sink.</p> + +<p>She was worried by an overheard remark of the +boy wonder, "Gosh, we haven't any more of that +decent brake lining. Have to use this piece of mush." +But when the car was actually done, nothing like a +dubious brake could have kept her from the glory +of starting. The first miles seemed miracles of ease +and speed.</p> + +<p>She came through the mountains into Livingston.</p> + +<p>Kicking his heels on a fence near town, and +fondling a gray cat, sat Milt Daggett, and he yelped +at her with earnestness and much noise.</p> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER XII<br /> +THE WONDERS OF NATURE WITH ALL MODERN IMPROVEMENTS</h2> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">"Hello</span>!" said Milt.</p> + +<p>"Hel-lo!" said Claire.</p> + +<p>"How dee do," said Mr. Boltwood.</p> + +<p>"This is so nice! Where's your car? I hope +nothing's happened," glowed Claire.</p> + +<p>"No. It's back here from the road a piece. Camp +there tonight. Reason I stopped—— Struck me +you've never done any mountain driving, and there's +some pretty good climbs in the Park; slick road, but +we go up to almost nine thousand feet. And cold +mornings. Thought I'd tip you off to some driving +tricks—if you'd like me to."</p> + +<p>"Oh, of course. Very grateful——"</p> + +<p>"Then I'll tag after you tomorrow, and speak my +piece."</p> + +<p>"So jolly you're going through the Park."</p> + +<p>"Yes, thought might as well. What the guide +books call 'Wonders of Nature.' Only wonder of +nature I ever saw in Schoenstrom was my friend Mac +trying to think he was soused after a case of near-beer. +Well—— See you tomorrow."</p> + +<p>Not once had he smiled. His tone had been impersonal. +He vaulted the fence and tramped away.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span>When they drove out of town, in the morning, they +found Milt waiting by the road, and he followed them +till noon. By urgent request, he shared a lunch, and +lectured upon going down long grades in first or second +speed, to save brakes; upon the use of the retarded +spark and the slipped clutch in climbing. His bug was +beside the Gomez in the line-up at the Park gate, when +the United States Army came to seal one's firearms, +and to inquire on which mountain one intended to be +killed by defective brakes. He was just behind her all +the climb up to Mammoth Hot Springs.</p> + +<p>When she paused for water to cool the boiling radiator, +the bug panted up, and with the first grin she had +seen on his face since Dakota Milt chuckled, "The +Teal is a grand car for mountains. Aside from overheating, +bum lights, thin upholstery, faulty ignition, +tissue-paper brake-bands, and this-here special aviation +engine, specially built for a bumble-bee, it's what the +catalogues call a powerful brute!"</p> + +<p>Claire and her father stayed at the chain of hotels +through the Park. Milt was always near them, but +not at the hotels. He patronized one of the chains of +permanent camps.</p> + +<p>The Boltwoods invited him to dinner at one hotel, +but he refused and——</p> + +<hr class="shr" /> + +<p>Because he was afraid that Claire would find him +intrusive, Milt was grave in her presence. He couldn't<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span> +respond either to her enthusiasm about canyon and +colored pool—or to her rage about the tourists who, +she alleged, preferred freak museum pieces to plain +beauty; who never admired a view unless it was labeled +by a signpost and megaphoned by a guide as something +they ought to admire—and tell the Folks Back Home +about.</p> + +<p>When she tried to express this social rage to Milt he +merely answered uneasily, "Yes, I guess there's something +to that."</p> + +<p>She was, he pondered, so darn particular. How +could he ever figure out what he ought to do? No +thanks; much obliged, but guessed he'd better not accept +her invitation to dinner. Darn sorry couldn't +come but—— Had promised a fellow down at the +camp to have chow with him.</p> + +<p>If in this Milt was veracious, he was rather fickle +to his newly discovered friend; for while Claire was +finishing dinner, a solemn young man was watching +her through a window.</p> + +<p>She was at a table for six. She was listening to a +man of thirty in riding-breeches, a stock, and a pointed +nose, who bowed to her every time he spoke, which +was so frequently that his dining gave the impression +of a man eating grape-fruit on a merry-go-round. +Back in Schoenstrom, fortified by Mac and the bunch +at the Old Home Lunch, Milt would have called the +man a "dude," and—though less noisily than the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span> +others—would have yelped, "Get onto Percy's beer-bottle +pants. What's he got his neck bandaged for? +Bet he's got a boil."</p> + +<p>But now Milt yearned, "He does look swell. Wish +I could get away with those things. Wouldn't I look +like a fool with my knees buttoned up, though! And +there's two other fellows in dress suits. Wouldn't +mind those so much. Gee, it must be awful where +you've got so many suits of trick clothes you don't +know which one to wear.</p> + +<p>"That fellow and Claire are talking pretty swift. +He doesn't need any piston rings, that lad. Wonder—wonder +what they're talking about? Music, I guess, +and books and pictures and scenery. He's saying that +no tongue or pen can describe the glories of the Park, +and then he's trying to describe 'em. And maybe they +know the same folks in New York. Lord, how I'd +be out of it. I wish——"</p> + +<p>Milt made a toothpick out of a match, decided that +toothpicks were inelegant in his tragic mood, and +longed: "Never did see her among her own kind of +folks till now. I wish I could jabber about music and +stuff. I'll learn it. I will! I can! I picked up autos +in three months. I—— Milt, you're a dub. I wonder +can they be talking French, maybe, or Wop, or something? +I could get onto the sedan styles in highbrow +talk as long as it was in American.</p> + +<p>"I could probably spring linen-collar stuff about,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span> +'Really a delightful book, so full of delightful characters,' +if I stuck by the rhetoric books long enough. +But once they begin the <i>parlez-vous, oui, oui</i>, I'm a +gone goose. Still, by golly, didn't I pick up Dutch—German—like +a mice? Back off, son! You did +not! You can talk Plattdeutsch something grand, as +long as you keep the verbs and nouns in American. +You got a nice character, Milt, but you haven't got any +parts of speech.</p> + +<p>"Now look at Percy! Taking a bath in a finger-bowl. +I never could pull that finger-bowl stuff; pinning +your ears back and jiu-jitsing the fried chicken, +and then doing a high dive into a little dish that ain't—that +isn't either a wash-bowl or real good lemonade. +He's a perfect lady, Percy is. Dabs his mouth with +his napkin like a watchmaker tinkering the carburetor +in a wrist watch.</p> + +<p>"Lookit him bow and scrape—asking her something—— Rats, +he's going out in the lobby with her. +Walks like a cat on a wet ash-pile. But—— Oh +thunder, he's all right. Neat. I never could mingle +with that bunch. I'd be web-footed and butter-fingered. +And he seems to know all that bunch—bows +to every maiden aunt in the shop. Now if I was +following her, I'd never see anybody but her; rest of +the folks could all bob their heads silly, and I'd never +see one blame thing except that funny little soft spot +at the back of her neck. Nope, you're kind to your<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span> +cat, Milt, but you weren't cut out to be no parlor-organ +duet."</p> + +<p>This same meditative young man might have been +discovered walking past the porch of the hotel, his +hands in his pockets, his eyes presumably on the stars—certainly +he gave no signs of watching Claire and +the man in riding-breeches as they leaned over the +rail, looked at mountain-tops filmy in starlight, while +in the cologne-atomized mode, Breeches quoted:</p> + +<div class="poem" style="width: 17em;"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Ah, 'tis far heaven my awed heart seeks<br /></span> +<span class="i0">When I behold those mighty peaks.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>Milt could hear him commenting, "Doesn't that +just get the feeling of the great open, Miss Boltwood?"</p> + +<p>Milt did not catch her answer. Himself, he +grunted, "I never could get much het up about this +poetry that's full of Ah's and 'tises."</p> + +<p>Claire must have seen Milt just after he had sauntered +past. She cried, "Oh, Mr. Daggett! Just a +moment!" She left Breeches, ran down to Milt. He +was frightened. Was he going to get what he deserved +for eavesdropping?</p> + +<p>She was almost whispering. "Save me from our +friend up on the porch," she implored.</p> + +<p>He couldn't believe it. But he took a chance. +"Won't you have a little walk?" he roared.</p> + +<p>"So nice of you—just a little way, perhaps?" she +sang out.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span>They were silent till he got up the nerve to admire, +"Glad you found some people you knew in the +hotel."</p> + +<p>"But I didn't."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I thought your friend in the riding-pants was +chummy."</p> + +<p>"So did I!" She rather snorted.</p> + +<p>"Well, he's a nice-looking lad. I did admire those +pants. I never could wear anything like that."</p> + +<p>"I should hope not—at dinner! The creepy jack-ass, +I don't believe he's ever been on a horse in his +life! He thinks riding-breeches are the——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, that's it. Breeches, not pants."</p> + +<p>"—last word in smartness. Overdressing is just +ten degrees worse than underdressing."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I don't know. Take this sloppy old blue suit +of mine——"</p> + +<p>"It's perfectly nice and simple, and quite well cut. +You probably had a clever tailor."</p> + +<p>"I had. He lives in Chicago or New York, I believe."</p> + +<p>"Really? How did he come to Schoenstrom?"</p> + +<p>"Never been there. This tailor is a busy boy. He +fitted about eleventeen thousand people, last year."</p> + +<p>"I see. Ready mades. Cheer up. That's where +Henry B. Boltwood gets most of his clothes. Mr. +Daggett, if ever I catch you in the Aren't-I-beautiful +frame of mind of our friend back on the porch, I'll +give up my trip to struggle for your soul."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span>"He seemed to have soul in large chunks. He +seemed to talk pretty painlessly. I had a hunch you +and he were discussing sculpture, anyway. Maybe +Rodin."</p> + +<p>"What do you know about Rodin?"</p> + +<p>"Articles in the magazines. Same place you learned +about him!" But Milt did not sound rude. He said +it chucklingly.</p> + +<p>"You're perfectly right. And we've probably read +the very same articles. Well, our friend back there +said to me at dinner, 'It must be dreadful for you +to have to encounter so many common people along +the road.' I said, 'It is,' in the most insulting tone I +could, and he just rolled his eyes, and hadn't an idea +I meant him. Then he slickered his hair at me, and +mooed, 'Is it not wonderful to see all these strange +manifestations of the secrets of Nature!' and I said, +'Is it?' and he went on, 'One feels that if one could +but meet a sympathetic lady here, one's cup of rejoicing +in untrammeled nature——' Honest, Milt, Mr. +Daggett, I mean, he did talk like that. Been reading +books by optimistic lady authors. And one looked at +me, one did, as if one would be willing to hold my +hand, if I let one.</p> + +<p>"He invited me to come out on the porch and give +the double O. to handsome mountains as illuminated +by terrestrial bodies, and I felt so weak in the presence +of his conceit that I couldn't refuse. Then he insisted<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span> +on introducing me to a woman from my own Brooklyn, +who condoled with me for having to talk to Western +persons while motoring. Oh, dear God, that such +people should live ... that the sniffy little Claire +should once have been permitted to live!... And +then I saw you!"</p> + +<p>Through all her tirade they had stood close together, +her face visibly eager in the glow from the +hotel; and Milt had grown taller. But he responded, +"I'm afraid I might have been just as bad. I haven't +even reached the riding-breeches stage in evolution. +Maybe never will."</p> + +<p>"No. You won't. You'll go right through it. +By and by, when you're so rich that father and I +won't be allowed to associate with you, you'll wear +riding-breeches—but for riding, not as a donation to +the beauties of nature."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I'm already rich. It shows. Waitress down +at the camp asked me whose car I was driving +through."</p> + +<p>"I know what I wanted to say. Since you won't +be our guest, will you be our host—I mean, as far +as welcoming us? I think it would be fun for father +and me to stop at your camp, tomorrow night, at the +canyon, instead of at the hotel. Will you guide me +to the canyon, if I do?"</p> + +<p>"Oh—terribly—glad!"</p> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER XIII<br /> +ADVENTURERS BY FIRELIGHT</h2> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">Neither</span> of the Boltwoods had seen the Grand +Canyon of the Colorado. The Canyon of the +Yellowstone was their first revelation of intimidating +depth and color gone mad. When their car and +Milt's had been parked in the palisaded corral back +of the camp at which they were to stay, they three set +out for the canyon's edge chattering, and stopped +dumb.</p> + +<p>Mr. Boltwood declined to descend. He returned to +the camp for a cigar. The boy and girl crept down +seeming miles of damp steps to an outhanging pinnacle +that still was miles of empty airy drop above the river +bed. Claire had a quaking feeling that this rock pulpit +was going to slide. She thrust out her hand, seized +Milt's paw, and in its firm warmth found comfort. +Clinging to its security she followed him by the crawling +path to the river below. She looked up at columns +of crimson and saffron and burning brown, up at the +matronly falls, up at lone pines clinging to jutting +rocks that must be already crashing toward her, and +in the splendor she knew the Panic fear that is the +deepest reaction to beauty.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span>Milt merely shook his head as he stared up. He had +neither gossiped nor coyly squeezed her hand as he +had guided her. She fell to thinking that she preferred +this American boy in this American scene to a +nimble gentleman saluting the Alps in a dinky green +hat with a little feather.</p> + +<p>It was Milt who, when they had labored back up +again, when they had sat smiling at each other with +comfortable weariness, made her see the canyon not +as a freak, but as the miraculous work of a stream +rolling grains of sand for millions of years, till it +had cut this Jovian intaglio. He seemed to have read—whether +in books, or in paragraphs in mechanical +magazines—a good deal about geology. He made it +real. Not that she paid much attention to what he +actually said! She was too busy thinking of the fact +that he should say it at all.</p> + +<p>Not condescendingly but very companionably she +accompanied Milt in the exploration of their camp +for the night—the big dining tent, the city of individual +bedroom tents, canvas-sided and wooden-floored, each +with a tiny stove for the cold mornings of these high +altitudes. She was awed that evening by hearing her +waitress discussing the novels of Ibanez. Jeff Saxton +knew the names of at least six Russian novelists, but +Jeff was not highly authoritative regarding Spanish +literature.</p> + +<p>"I suppose she's a school-teacher, working here in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span> +vacation," Claire whispered to Milt, beside her at the +long, busy, scenically conversational table.</p> + +<p>"Our waitress? Well, sort of. I understand she's +professor of literature in some college," said Milt, in a +matter of fact way. And he didn't at all see the sequence +when she went on:</p> + +<p>"There is an America! I'm glad I've found it!"</p> + +<p>The camp's evening bonfire was made of logs on end +about a stake of iron. As the logs blazed up, the +guests on the circle of benches crooned "Suwanee +River," and "Old Black Joe," and Claire crooned +with them. She had been afraid that her father would +be bored, but she saw that, above his carefully tended +cigar, he was dreaming. She wondered if there had +been a time when he had hummed old songs.</p> + +<p>The fire sank to coals. The crowd wandered off +to their tents. Mr. Boltwood followed them after an +apologetic, "Good night. Don't stay up too late." +With a scattering of only half a dozen people on the +benches, this huge circle seemed deserted; and Claire +and Milt, leaning forward, chins on hands, were alone—by +their own campfire, among the mountains.</p> + +<p>The stars stooped down to the hills; the pines were +a wall of blackness; a coyote yammered to point the +stillness; and the mighty pile of coals gave a warmth +luxurious in the creeping mountain chill.</p> + +<p>The silence of large places awes the brisk intruder, +and Claire's voice was unconsciously lowered as she<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span> +begged, "Tell me something about yourself, Mr. Daggett. +I don't really know anything at all."</p> + +<p>"Oh, you wouldn't be interested. Just Schoenstrom!"</p> + +<p>"But just Schoenstrom might be extremely interesting."</p> + +<p>"But honest, you'd think I was—edging in on +you!"</p> + +<p>"I know what you are thinking. The time I suggested, +way back there in Dakota, that you were sticking +too close. You've never got over it. I've tried +to make up for it, but—— I really don't blame you. +I was horrid. I deserve being beaten. But you do +keep on punishing ra——"</p> + +<p>"Punishing? Lord, I didn't mean to! No! +Honest! It was nothing. You were right. Looked +as though I was inviting myself—— But, oh, +pleassssse, Miss Boltwood, don't ever think for a sec. +that I meant to be a grouch——"</p> + +<p>"Then do tell me—— Who is this Milton Daggett +that you know so much better than I ever can?"</p> + +<p>"Well," Milt crossed his knees, caught his chin +in his hand, "I don't know as I really do know him so +well. I thought I did. I was onto his evil ways. He +was the son of the pioneer doctor, Maine folks."</p> + +<p>"Really? My mother came from Maine."</p> + +<p>Milt did not try to find out that they were cousins. +He went on, "This kid, Milt, went to high school in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span> +St. Cloud—town twenty times as big as Schoenstrom—but +he drifted back because his dad was old and +needed him, after his mother's death——"</p> + +<p>"You have no brothers or sisters?"</p> + +<p>"No. Nobody. 'Cept Lady Vere de Vere—which +animal she is going to get cuffed if she chews up any +more of my overcoat out in my tent tonight!... +Well, this kid worked 'round, machinery mostly, and +got interested in cars, and started a garage—— Wee, +that was an awful shop, first one I had! In +Rauskukle's barn. Six wrenches and a screwdriver +and a one-lung pump! And I didn't know a roller-bearing +from three-point suspension! But—— Well, +anyway, he worked along, and built a regular garage, +and paid off practically all the mortgage on it——"</p> + +<p>"I remember stopping at a garage in Schoenstrom, +I'm almost sure it was, for something. I seem to remember +it was a good place. Do you own it? +Really?"</p> + +<p>"Ye-es, what there is of it."</p> + +<p>"But there's a great deal of it. It's efficient. +You've done your job. That's more than most high-born +aides-de-camp could say."</p> + +<p>"Honestly? Well—I don't know——"</p> + +<p>"Who did you play with in Schoenstrom? Oh, I +<i>wish</i> I'd noticed that town. But I couldn't tell then +that—— What, uh, which girl did you fall in love +with?"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span>"None! Honest! None! Not one! Never fell +in love——"</p> + +<p>"You're unfortunate. I have, lots of times. I +remember quite enjoying being kissed once, at a +dance."</p> + +<p>When he answered, his voice was strange: "I suppose +you're engaged to somebody."</p> + +<p>"No. And I don't know that I shall be. Once, I +thought I liked a man, rather. He has nice eyes and +the most correct spectacles, and he is polite to his +mother at breakfast, and his name is Jeff, and he will +undoubtedly be worth five or six hundred thousand +dollars, some day, and his opinions on George Moore +and commercial paper are equally sound and unoriginal—— Oh, +I ought not to speak of him, and I certainly +ought not to be spiteful. I'm not at all reticent +and ladylike, am I! But—— Somehow I can't see +him out here, against a mountain of jagged rock."</p> + +<p>"Only you won't always be out here against mountains. +Some day you'll be back in—where is it in +New York State?"</p> + +<p>"I confess it's Brooklyn—but not what you'd mean +by Brooklyn. Your remark shows you to have subtlety. +I must remember that, mustn't I! I won't always +be driving through this big land. But—— Will +I get all fussy and ribbon-tied again, when I go back?"</p> + +<p>"No. You won't. You drive like a man."</p> + +<p>"What has that——"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span>"It has a lot to do with it. A garage man can trail +along behind another car and figger out, figure out, just +about what kind of a person the driver is from the way +he handles his boat. Now you bite into the job. You +drive pretty neat—neatly. You don't either scoot too +far out of the road in passing a car, or take corners +too wide. You won't be fussy. But still, I suppose +you'll be glad to be back among your own folks and +you'll forget the wild Milt that tagged along——"</p> + +<p>"Milt—or Mr. Daggett—no, Milt! I shall never, +in my oldest grayest year, in a ducky cap by the fireplace, +forget the half-second when your hand came +flashing along, and caught that man on the running-board. +But it wasn't just that melodrama. If that +hadn't happened, something else would have, to symbolize +you. It's that you—oh, you took me in, a +stranger, and watched over me, and taught me the +customs of the country, and were never impatient. +No, I shan't forget that; neither of the Boltwoods +will."</p> + +<p>In the rose-haze of firelight he straightened up and +stared at her, but he settled into shyness again as she +added:</p> + +<p>"Perhaps others would have done the same thing. +I don't know. If they had, I should have remembered +them too. But it happened that it was you, and I, uh, +my father and I, will always be grateful. We both +hope we may see you in Seattle. What are you planning<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span> +to do there? What is your ambition? Or is +that a rude question?"</p> + +<p>"Why, uh——"</p> + +<p>"What I mean—— I mean, how did you happen +to want to go there, with a garage at home? You still +control it?"</p> + +<p>"Oh yes. Left my mechanic in charge. Why, I +just kind of decided suddenly. I guess it was what +they call an inspiration. Always wanted a long trip, +anyway, and I thought maybe in Seattle I could hook +up with something a little peppier than Schoenstrom. +Maybe something in Alaska. Always wished I were +a mechanical or civil engineer so——"</p> + +<p>"Then why don't you become one? You're +young—— How old are you?"</p> + +<p>"Twenty-five."</p> + +<p>"We're both children, compared with Je—compared +with some men who are my friends. You're +quite young enough to go to engineering school. And +take some academic courses on the side—English, so +on. Why don't you? Have you ever thought of it?"</p> + +<p>"N-no, I hadn't thought of doing it, but—— All +right. I will! In Seattle! B'lieve the University +of Washington is there."</p> + +<p>"You mean it?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. I do. You're the boss."</p> + +<p>"That's—that's flattering, but—— Do you always +make up your mind as quickly as this?"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span>"When the boss gives orders!"</p> + +<p>He smiled, and she smiled back, but this time it was +she who was embarrassed. "You're rather overwhelming. +You change your life—if you really do +mean it—because a <i>jeune fille</i> from Brooklyn is so impertinent, +from her Olympian height of finishing-school +learning, as to suggest that you do so."</p> + +<p>"I don't know what a <i>jeune fille</i> is, but I do +know——" He sprang up. He did not look at her. +He paraded back and forth, three steps to the right, +three to the left, his hands in his pockets, his voice impersonal. +"I know you're the finest person I ever +met. You're the kind—I knew there must be people +like you, because I knew the Joneses. They're the only +friends I've got that have, oh, I suppose it's what they +call culture."</p> + +<p>In a long monologue, uninterrupted by Claire, he +told of his affection for the Schoenstrom "prof" and +his wife. The practical, slangy Milt of the garage was +lost in the enthusiastic undergraduate adoring his +instructor in the university that exists as veritably +in a teacher's or a doctor's sitting-room in every +Schoenstrom as it does in certain lugubrious stone +hulks recognized by a state legislature as magically empowered +to paste on sacred labels lettered "Bachelor +of Arts."</p> + +<p>He broke from his revelations to plump down on +the bench beside her, to slap his palm with his fist,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span> +and sigh, "Lord, I've been gassing on! Guess I bored +you!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, please, Milt, please! I see it all so—— It +must have been wonderful, the evening when Mrs. +Jones read Noyes's 'Highwayman' aloud. Tell me—long +before that—were you terribly lonely as a little +boy?"</p> + +<p>Now Milt had not been a terribly lonely little boy. +He had been a leader in a gang devoted to fighting, +swimming, pickerel-spearing, beggie-stealing, and +catching rides on freights.</p> + +<p>But he believed that he was accurately presenting +every afternoon of his childhood, as he mused, "Yes, +I guess I was, pretty much. I remember I used to sit +on dad's doorstep, all those long sleepy summer afternoons, +and I'd think, 'Aw, geeeeee, I—wisht—I—had—somebody—to—play—with!' +I always wanted to +make-b'lieve Robin Hood, but none of the other kids—so +many of them were German; they didn't know +about Robin Hood; so I used to scout off alone."</p> + +<p>"If I could only have been there, to be Maid +Marian for you! We'd have learned archery! Lonely +little boy on the doorstep!" Her fingers just touched +his sleeve. In her gesture, the ember-light caught the +crystal of her wrist watch. She stooped to peer at it, +and her pitying tenderness broke off in an agitated: +"Heavings! Is it that late? To bed! Good night, +Milt."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span>"Good night, Cl—— Miss Boltwood."</p> + +<p>"No. 'Claire,' of course. I'm not normally a first-name-snatcher, +but I do seem to have fallen into saying +'Milt.' Night!"</p> + +<p>As she undressed, in her tent, Claire reflected, "He +won't take advantage of my being friendly, will he? +Only thing is—— I sha'n't dare to look at Henry B. +when Milt calls me 'Claire' in that sedate Brooklyn +Heights presence. The dear lamb! Lonely afternoons——!"</p> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER XIV<br /> +THE BEAST OF THE CORRAL</h2> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">They</span> met in the frost-shimmering mountain +morning, on their way to the corral, to get their +cars ready before breakfast. They were shy, hence +they were boisterous, and tremendously unreferential +to campfire confidences, and informative about distilled +water for batteries, and the price of gas in the Park. +On Milt's shoulder rode Vere de Vere who, in her +original way, relieved one pause by observing "Mrwr."</p> + +<p>They came in through the corral gate before any +of the other motor tourists had appeared—and they +stupidly halted to watch a bear, a large, black, adipose +and extremely unchained bear, stalk along the line of +cars, sniff, cock an ear at the Gomez, lumber up on its +running-board, and bundle into the seat. His stern +filled the space between side and top, and he was to be +heard snuffing.</p> + +<p>"Oh! Look! Milt! Left box of candy on +seat—— Oh, please drive him away!"</p> + +<p>"Me? Drive—that?"</p> + +<p>"Frighten him away. Aren't animals afraid human +eye——"</p> + +<p>"Not in this park. Guns forbidden. Animals protected +by U. S. Army, President, Congress, Supreme<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span> +Court, Department of Interior, Monroe Doctrine, W. +C. T. U. But I'll try—cautiously."</p> + +<p>"Don't you want me think you're hero?"</p> + +<p>"Ye-es, providin' I don't have to go and be one."</p> + +<p>They edged toward the car. The bear flapped his +hind legs, looked out at the intruders, said "Oofflll!" +and returned to the candy.</p> + +<p>"Shoo!" Milt answered politely.</p> + +<p>"Llooffll!"</p> + +<p>From his own bug, beside the Gomez, Milt got a +tool kit, and with considerable brilliance as a pitcher +he sent a series of wrenches at the agitated stern of +the bear. They offended the dignity of the ward of +the Government. He finished the cover and ribbons +of the candy box, and started for Milt ... who proceeded +with haste toward Claire ... who was already +at the gate.</p> + +<p>Lady Vere de Vere, cat of a thousand battles, gave +one frightful squawl, shot from Milt's shoulder and at +the bear, claws out, fur electric. The bear carelessly +batted once with its paw, and the cat sailed into the +air. The satisfied bear strolled to the fence, shinned +up it and over.</p> + +<p>"Good old Vere! That wallop must of darn near +stunned her, though!" Milt laughed to Claire, as they +trotted back into the corral. The cat did not move, +as they came up; did not give the gallant "Mrwr" +with which she had saluted Milt on lonely morning<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span> +after morning of forlorn driving behind the Gomez. +He picked Vere up.</p> + +<p>"She's—she's dead," he said. He was crying.</p> + +<p>"Oh, Milt—— Last night you said Vere was all +the family you had. You have the Boltwoods, now!"</p> + +<p>She did not touch his hand, nor did they speak as +they walked soberly to the far side of the corral, and +buried Lady Vere de Vere. At breakfast they talked +of the coming day's run, from the canyon out of the +Park, and northward. But they had the queer, quick +casualness of intimates.</p> + +<hr class="shr" /> + +<p>It was at breakfast that her father heard one Milt +Daggett address the daughter of the Boltwoods as +"Claire." The father was surprised into clearing his +throat, and attacking his oatmeal with a zealousness +unnatural in a man who regarded breakfast-foods as +moral rather than interesting.</p> + +<p>While he was lighting a cigar, and Claire was paying +the bill, Mr. Boltwood stalked Milt, cleared his +throat all over again, and said, "Nice morning."</p> + +<p>It was the first time the two men had talked unchaperoned +by Claire.</p> + +<p>"Yes. We ought to have a good run, sir." The +"sir" came hard. The historian puts forth a theory +that Milt had got it out of fiction. "We might go up +over Mount Washburn. Take us up to ten thousand +feet."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span>"Uh, you said—didn't Miss Boltwood tell me that +you are going to Seattle, too?"</p> + +<p>"Yes."</p> + +<p>"Friends there, no doubt?"</p> + +<p>Milt grinned irresistibly. "Not a friend. But I'm +going to make 'em. I'm going to take up engineering, +and some French, I guess, at the university there."</p> + +<p>"Ah. Really?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. Been too limited in my ambition. Don't see +why I shouldn't get out and build railroads and +power plants and roads—Siberia, Africa, all sorts of +interesting places."</p> + +<p>"Quite right. Quite right. Uh, ah, I, oh, I—— Have +you seen Miss Boltwood?"</p> + +<p>"I saw Miss Boltwood in the office."</p> + +<p>"Oh yes. Quite so. Uh—ah, here she is."</p> + +<p>When the Gomez had started, Mr. Boltwood skirmished, +"This young man—— Do you think you better +let him call you by your Christian name?"</p> + +<p>"Why not? I call him 'Milt.' 'Mr. Daggett' is +too long a handle to use when a man is constantly +rescuing you from the perils of the deep or hoboes or +bears or something. Oh, I haven't told you. Poor +old Milt, his cat was killed——"</p> + +<p>"Yes, yes, dolly, you may tell me about that in +due time, but let's stick to this social problem for a +moment. Do you think you ought to be too intimate +with him?"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span>"He's only too self-respecting. He wouldn't take +advantage——"</p> + +<p>"I'm quite aware of that. I'm not speaking on your +behalf, but on his. I'm sure he's a very amiable chap, +and ambitious. In fact—— Did you know that he +has saved up money to attend a university?"</p> + +<p>"When did he tell you that? How long has he +been planning—— I thought that I——"</p> + +<p>"Just this morning; just now."</p> + +<p>"Oh! I'm relieved."</p> + +<p>"I don't quite follow you, dolly, but—— Where +was I? Do you realize what a demure tyrant you are? +If you can drag me from New York to the aboriginal +wilds, and I did <i>not</i> like that oatmeal, what will you do +to this innocent? I want to protect him!"</p> + +<p>"You better! Because I'm going to carve him, and +paint him, and possibly spoil him. The creating of a +man—of one who knows how to handle life—is so +much more wonderful than creating absurd pictures or +statues or stories. I'll nag him into completing college. +He'll learn dignity—or perhaps lose his simplicity +and be ruined; and then I'll marry him off to +some nice well-bred pink-face, like Jeff Saxton's pretty +cousin—who may turn him into a beastly money-grubber; +and I'm monkeying with destiny, and I ought +to be slapped, and I realize it, and I can't help it, and +all my latent instinct as a feminine meddler is aroused, +and—golly, I almost went off that curve!"</p> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER XV<br /> +THE BLACK DAY OF THE VOYAGE</h2> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">That</span> was the one black day of her voyage—black +stippled with crimson.</p> + +<p>It began with the bear's invasion of the car, resulting +in long claw-marks across the upholstery, the +loss of some particularly good candy bought at a Park +hotel, and genuine grief abiding after the sentimental +tragedy of Vere de Vere's death. The next act was +the ingenious loss of all power of her engine. She +forgot that, before breakfast, Milt had filled the oil-well +for her. When she stopped for gasoline, and the +seller inquired, "Quart of oil?"—she absently nodded. +So the cylinders filled with surplus oil, the spark-plugs +were fouled, and the engine had the power of a sewing +machine.</p> + +<p>She could not make Mount Washburn—she could +not make even the slopes of the lower road. Now she +knew the agony of the feeble car in the mountains—most +shameful and anxious of a driver's dolors: the +brisk start up the hill, the belief that you will keep +on going this time; the feeling of weariness through +all the car; the mad shifting of gears, the slipping of +the clutch, and more gas, and less gas, and wondering +whether more gas or less is the better, and the appalling<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span> +knocking when you finally give her a lot too much +gas; the remembrance, when it's too late, to retard the +spark; the safe crawling up to the last sharp pitch, just +fifteen feet from the summit; the car's halting; the +yelp at your passenger, "Jump out and push!"; the +painful next five feet; and the final death of the power +just as the front wheels creep up over the pitch. Then +the anxious putting on of brakes—holding the car with +both foot-brake and emergency, lest it run down backward, +slip off the road. The calf of your leg begins to +ache from the pressure on the foot-brake, and with an +unsuccessful effort to be courteous you bellow at the +passenger, who has been standing beside the car looking +deprecatory, "Will you please block the back +wheels with a stone—hustle up, will you!"</p> + +<p>All this routine Claire thoroughly learned. Always +Milt bumbled up, said cheerful things, and either +hauled the Gomez over the pitch by a towline to his +bug, or getting out, pushing on a rear fender till his +neck was red and bulgy, gave the extra impetus necessary +to get the Gomez over.</p> + +<p>"Would you mind shoving on that side, just a little +bit?" he suggested to Mr. Boltwood, who ceased the +elaborate smoking of cigars, dusted his hands, and +gravely obeyed, while Claire was awaiting the new captain's +command to throw on the power.</p> + +<p>"I wish we weren't under so much obligation to +this young man," said Mr. Boltwood, after one crisis.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span>"I know but—what can we do?"</p> + +<p>"Don't you suppose we might pay him?"</p> + +<p>"Henry B. Boltwood, if you tried to do that—— I'm +not sure. Your being my parent might save you, +but even so, I think he'd probably chase you off the +road, clear down into that chasm."</p> + +<p>"I suppose so. Shall we have to entertain him in +Seattle?"</p> + +<p>"Have to? My dear parent, you can't keep me from +it! Any of the Seattle friends of Gene Gilson who +don't appreciate that straight, fine, aspiring boy may +go—— Not overdo it, you understand. But—— Oh, +take him to the theater. By the way; shall we +try to climb Mount Rainier before——"</p> + +<p>"See here, my good dolly; you stop steering me +away from my feeble parental efforts. Do you wish +to be under obligations——"</p> + +<p>"Don't mind, with Milt. He wouldn't charge interest, +as Jeff Saxton would. Milt is, oh, he's folks!"</p> + +<p>"Quite true. But are we? Are you?"</p> + +<p>"Learning to be!"</p> + +<p>Between discussions and not making hills, Claire +cleaned the spark plugs as they accumulated carbon +from the surplus oil—or she pretended to help Milt +clean them. The plugs were always very hot, and +when you were unscrewing the jacket from the core, +you always burned your hand, and wished you could +swear ... and sometimes you could.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span>After noon, when they had left the Park and entered +Gardiner, Milt announced, "I've got to stick +around a while. The key in my steering-gear seems to +be worn. May have to put in a new one. Get the +stuff at a garage here. If you wouldn't mind waiting, +be awful glad to tag, and try to give a few helping +hands till the oil cleans itself out."</p> + +<p>"I'll just stroll on," she said, but she drove away +as swiftly as she could. Her father's worry about +obligations disturbed her, and she did not wish to +seem too troublesome an amateur to Milt. She would +see him in Livingston, and tell him how well she had +driven. The spark plugs kept clean enough now so +that she could command more power, but——</p> + +<p>Between the Park and the transcontinental road +there are many climbs short but severely steep; up-shoots +like the humps on a scenic railway. To tackle +them with her uncertain motor was like charging a +machine-gun nest. She spent her nerve-force lavishly, +and after every wild rush to make a climb, she had to +rest, to rub the suddenly aching back of her neck. +Because she was so tired, she did not take the trouble +to save her brakes by going down in gear. She let +the brakes smoke while the river and railroad below +rose up at her.</p> + +<p>There was a long drop. How long it was she did +not guess, because it was concealed by a curve at the +top. She seemed to plane down forever. The brakes<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span> +squealed behind. She tried to shift to first but there +was a jarring snarl, and she could neither get into +first nor back into third. She was running in neutral, +the great car coasting, while she tried to slow it by +jamming down the foot-brake. The car halted—and +started on again. The brake-lining which had been +wished on her at Saddle Back was burnt out.</p> + +<p>She had the feeling of the car bursting out from +under control ... ready to leap off the road, into a +wash. She wanted to jump. It took all her courage to +stay in the seat. She got what pressure she could +from the remaining band. With one hand she kept +the accelerating car in the middle of the road; with +the other she tried to pull the handle of the emergency +brake back farther. She couldn't. She was +not strong enough. Faster, faster, rushing at the +next curve so that she could scarce steer round it——</p> + +<p>As quietly as she could, she demanded of her father, +"Pull back on this brake lever, far as you can. Take +both hands."</p> + +<p>"I don't understand——"</p> + +<p>"Heavens! Y' don't haft un'stand! Yank back! +Yank, I tell you!"</p> + +<p>Again the car slowed. She was able to get into +second speed. Even that check did not keep the car +from darting down at thirty miles an hour—which +pace, to one who desires to saunter down at a dignified +rate of eighteen, is equivalent in terms of mileage on<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span> +level ground to seventy an hour, with a drunken driver, +on a foggy evening, amid traffic.</p> + +<p>She got the car down and, in the midst of a valley +of emptiness and quiet, she dropped her head on her +father's knee and howled.</p> + +<p>"I just can't face going down another hill! I just +can't face it!" she sobbed.</p> + +<p>"No, dolly. Mustn't. We better—— You're +quite right. This young Daggett is a very gentlemanly +fellow. I didn't think his table-manners—— But +we'll sit here and regard the flora and fauna till he +comes. He'll see us through."</p> + +<p>"Yes! He will! Honestly, dad——" She said it +with the first touch of hero-worship since she had seen +an aviator loop loops. "Isn't he, oh, effective! Aren't +you glad he's here to help us, instead of somebody like +Jeff Saxton?"</p> + +<p>"We-ul, you must remember that Geoffrey wouldn't +have permitted the brake to burn out. He'd have foreseen +it, and have had a branch office, with special +leased wire, located back on that hill, ready to do business +the instant the market broke. Enthusiasm is a +nice quality, dolly, but don't misplace it. This lad, +however trustworthy he may be, would scarcely even +be allowed to work for a man like Geoffrey Saxton. +It may be that later, with college——"</p> + +<p>"No. He'd work for Jeff two hours. Then Jeff +would give him that 'You poor fish!' look, and Milt<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span> +would hit him, and stroll out, and go to the North +Pole or some place, and discover an oil-well, and hire +Jeff as his nice, efficient general manager. And—— I +do wish Milt would hurry, though!"</p> + +<p>It was dusk before they heard the pit-pit-pit chuckling +down the hill. Milt's casual grin changed to +bashfulness as Claire ran into the road, her arms wide +in a lovely gesture of supplication, and cried, "We +been waiting for you so long! One of my brake-bands +is burnt out, and the other is punk."</p> + +<p>"Well, well. Let's try to figure out something +to do."</p> + +<p>She waited reverently while the local prophet sat in +his bug, stared at the wheels of the Gomez, and +thought. The level-floored, sagebrush-sprinkled hollow +had filled with mauve twilight and creeping stilly +sounds. The knowable world of yellow lights and +security was far away. Milt was her only means of +ever getting back to it.</p> + +<p>"Tell you what we might try," he speculated. "I'll +hitch on behind you, and hold back in going down +hill."</p> + +<p>She did not even try to help him while he again +cleaned the spark plugs and looked over brakes, oil, +gas, water. She sat on the running-board, and it was +pleasant to be relieved of responsibility. He said +nothing at all. While he worked he whistled that recent +refined ballad:</p> + +<div class="poem" style="width: 18em;"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">I wanta go back to Oregon<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And sit on the lawn, and look at the dawn.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Oh motheruh dear, don't leavuh me here,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">The leaves are so sere, in the fallothe year,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">I wanta go back to Oregugon,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To dearuh old Oregugon.<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>They started, shouting optimistically to each other, +lights on, trouble seeming over—and they stopped +after the next descent, and pools of tears were in the +corners of Claire's eyes. The holdback had not succeeded. +Her big car, with its quick-increasing momentum, +had jerked at the bug as though it were a +lard-can. The tow-rope had stretched, sung, snapped, +and again, in fire-shot delirium, she had gone rocking +down hill.</p> + +<p>He drove up beside her, got out, stood at her elbow. +His "I'm a bum inventor. We'll try somethin' else" +was so careless that, in her nerve-twanging exhaustion +she wailed, "Oh, don't be so beastly cheerful! You +don't care a bit!"</p> + +<p>In the dusk she could see him straighten, and his +voice came sharp as he ignored the ever-present +parental background and retorted, "Somebody has got +to be cheerful. Matter fact, I worked out the right +stunt, coming down."</p> + +<p>Like a man in the dentist's chair, recovering between +bouts, she drowsed and ignored the fact that in a few +minutes she would again have to reassemble herself,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span> +become wakeful and calm, and go through quite impossible +maneuvers of driving. Milt was, with a +hatchet from his camping-kit, cutting down a large +scrub pine. He dragged it to the Gomez and hitched +it to the back axle. The knuckles of the branches +would dig into the earth, the foliage catch at every +pebble.</p> + +<p>"There! That anchor would hold a truck!" he +shouted.</p> + +<p>It held. She went down the next two hills easily. +But she was through. Her forearms and brain were +equally numb. She appealed to Milt, "I can't seem to +go on any more. It's so dark, and I'm so tired——"</p> + +<p>"All right. No ranch houses anywheres near, so +we'll camp here, if Mr. Boltwood doesn't mind."</p> + +<p>Claire stirred herself to help him prepare dinner. +It wasn't much of a dinner to prepare. Both cars had +let provisions run low. They had bacon and petrified +ends of a loaf and something like coffee—not much +like it. Scientists may be interested in their discovery +that as a substitute for both cream and sugar in beverages +strawberry jam is a fallacy.</p> + +<p>For Mr. Boltwood's bed Milt hauled out the springy +seat-cushions of both cars. The Gomez cushion was +three inches thicker than that of the bug, which +resulted in a mattress two stories in front with a lean-to +at the foot, and the entire edifice highly slippery. +But with a blanket from Milt's kit, it was sufficient.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span> +To Claire, Milt gave another blanket, his collection of +antique overcoats, and good advice. He spoke vaguely +of a third blanket for himself. And he had one. Its +dimensions were thirteen by twenty inches, it was of +white wool, he had bought it in Dakota for Vere de +Vere, and many times that day he had patted it and +whispered, "Poor old cat."</p> + +<p>Under his blankets Mr. Boltwood thought of rattlesnakes, +bears, rheumatism, Brooklyn, his debt to Milt, +and the fact that—though he hadn't happened to mention +it to Claire—he had expected to be killed when +the brake had burned out.</p> + +<p>Claire was drowsily happy. She had got through. +She was conscious of rustling sagebrush, of the rapids +of the Yellowstone beside her, of open sky and sweet +air and a scorn for people in stuffy rooms, and comfortably +ever conscious of Milt, ten feet away. She +had in him the interest that a young physician would +have in a new X-ray machine, a printer in a new font +of type, any creator in a new outlet for his power. +She would see to it that her Seattle cousins, the Gilsons, +helped him to know the right people, during his +university work. She herself would be back in Brooklyn, +but perhaps he would write to her, write—write +letters—Brooklyn—she was in Brooklyn—no, +no, where was she?—oh, yes, camping—bad day—brakes—— No, +she would not marry Jeff Saxton! +Brooklyn—river singing—stars——</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span>And when Milt wasn't unromantically thinking of +his cold back, he exulted. "She won't be back among +her own folks till Seattle. Probably forget me then. +Don't blame her. But till we get there, she'll let me +play in her yard. Gee! In the morning I'll be talking +to her again, and she's right there, right now!"</p> + +<p>In the morning they were all very stiff, but glad of +the sun on sagebrush and river, and the boy and girl +sang over breakfast. While Milt was gathering fuel he +looked up at Claire standing against a background of +rugged hills, her skirt and shoes still smug, but her +jacket off, her blouse turned in at the throat, her hair +blowing, her sleeves rolled up, one hand on her hip, +erect, charged with vigor—the spirit of adventure.</p> + +<p>When her brake had been relined, at Livingston, +they sauntered companionably on to Butte. And the +day after Butte, when Milt was half a mile behind the +Gomez, a pink-haired man with a large, shiny revolver +stepped out from certain bushes, and bowed politely, +and at that point Milt stopped.</p> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER XVI<br /> +THE SPECTACLES OF AUTHORITY</h2> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">Over</span> the transcontinental divide and into Butte, +diamond-glittering on its hills in the dark; into +Missoula, where there are trees and a university, with +a mountain in everybody's backyard; through the +Flathead Agency, where scarlet-blanketed Indians +stalk out of tepees and the papoose rides on mother's +back as in forgotten days; down to St. Ignatius, that +Italian Alp town with its old mission at the foot of +mountains like the wall of Heaven, Claire had driven +west, then north. She was sailing past Flathead Lake, +where fifty miles of mountain glory are reflected in +bright waters. Everywhere were sections of flat +wheat-plains, stirring with threshing, with clattering +machinery and the flash of blown straw. But these +miniature prairies were encircled by abrupt mountains.</p> + +<p>Mr. Boltwood remarked, "I'd rather have one of +these homesteads and look across my fields at those +hills than be King of England." Not that he made +any effort to buy one of the homesteads. But then, +he made no appreciable effort to become King of +England.</p> + +<p>Claire had not seen Milt for a day and a half; not +since the morning when both cars had left Butte. She<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span> +wondered, and was piqued, and slightly lonely. Toward +evening, when she was speculating as to whether +she would make Kalispell—almost up to the Canadian +border—she saw a woman run into the road from a +house on the shore of Flathead Lake. The woman +held out her hand. Claire pulled up.</p> + +<p>"Are you Miss Boltwood?"</p> + +<p>It was as startling as the same question would +have been in a Chinese village.</p> + +<p>"W-why, yes."</p> + +<p>"Somebody trying to get you on the long-distance +'phone."</p> + +<p>"Me? 'Phone?"</p> + +<p>She was trembling. "Something's happened to +Milt. He needs me!" She could not manage her +voice, as she got the operator on the farmers'-line wire, +and croaked, "Was some one trying to get Miss Boltwood?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. This Boltwood? Hotel in Kalispell trying +to locate you, for two hours. Been telephoning all +along the line, from Butte to Somers."</p> + +<p>"W-well, w-will you g-get 'em for me?"</p> + +<p>It was not Milt's placid and slightly twangy voice +but one smoother, more decisive, perplexingly familiar, +that finally vibrated, "Hello! Hello! Miss Boltwood! +Operator, I can't hear. Get me a better connection. +Miss Boltwood?"</p> + +<p>"Yes! Yes! This is Miss Boltwood!" she kept<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span> +beseeching, during a long and not unheated controversy +between the unknown and the crisp operator, +who knew nothing of the English language beyond, +"Here's your party. Why don't you talk? Speak +louder!"</p> + +<p>Then came clearly, "Hear me now?"</p> + +<p>"Yes! Yes!"</p> + +<p>"Miss Boltwood?"</p> + +<p>"Yes?"</p> + +<p>"Oh. Oh, hello, Claire. This is Jeff."</p> + +<p>"Jess who?"</p> + +<p>"Not Jess. Jeff! Geoffrey! J-e-f-f! Jeff Saxton!"</p> + +<p>"Oh!" It was like a sob. "Why—why—but +you're in New York."</p> + +<p>"Not exactly, dear. I'm in Kalispell, Montana."</p> + +<p>"But that's right near here."</p> + +<p>"So am I!"</p> + +<p>"B-but——"</p> + +<p>"Out West to see copper interests. Traced you +from Yellowstone Park but missed you at Butte. +Thought I'd catch you on road. You talking from +Barmberry's?"</p> + +<p>The woman who had hailed her was not missing a +word of a telephone conversation which might be relative +to death, fire, elopement, or any other dramatic +event. Claire begged of her, "Where in the world +am I talking from, anyway?"</p> + +<p>"This is Barmberry's Inn."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span>"Yes," Claire answered on the telephone, "I seem +to be. Shall I start on and——"</p> + +<p>"No. Got ripping plan. Stay right where you are. +Got a fast car waiting. Be right down. We'll have +dinner. By!"</p> + +<p>A click. No answer to Claire's urgent hellos. She +hung up the receiver very, very carefully. She hated +to turn and face her audience of Mr. Henry B. Boltwood, +Mr. James Barmberry, Mrs. James Barmberry, +and four Barmberry buds averaging five and a quarter +in age. She tried to ignore the Barmberrys, but their +silence was noisy and interested while she informed +her father, "It's Jeff Saxton! Out here to see copper +mines. Telephoned along road to catch us. Says +we're to wait dinner till he comes."</p> + +<p>"Yessum," Mrs. Barmberry contributed, "he told +me if I did catch you, I was to have some new-killed +chickens ready to fry, and some whipped cream—— Jim +Barmberry, you go right out and finish whipping +that cream, and don't stand there gawping and gooping, +and you children, you scat!"</p> + +<p>Claire seized the moment of Mr. Boltwood's lordly +though bewildered bow to their hostess, and escaped +outdoors. Round the original settler's log-cabin were +nests of shacks and tents, for bedrooms, and on a +screened porch, looking on Flathead Lake, was the +dining-room. The few other guests had finished supper +and gone to their tents.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span>She ambled to the lake shore, feeling feebler, more +slapped and sent back to be a good little girl, than she +had when Milt had hitched a forest to the back axle, +three days ago. A map of her thoughts about Jeff Saxton +would have shown a labyrinth. Now, she was muttering, +"Dear Jeff! So thoughtful! Clever of him +to find me! So good to see him again!" Now: "It's +still distinctly understood that I am not engaged to +him, and I'm not going to be surprised into kissing him +when he comes down like a wolf on the fold." Now: +"Jeff Saxton! Here! Makes me homesick for the +Heights. And nice shops in Manhattan, and a really +good play—music just before the curtain goes up." +Now: "Ohhhhhh geeeeee whizzzzzz! I wonder if +he'll let us go any farther in the car? He's so managerial, +and dad is sure to take his side. He tried to +scare us off by that telegram to Fargo." Now: "He'd +be horrified if he knew about that bum brake. Milt +didn't mind. Milt likes his womenfolks to be daring. +Jeff wants his harem admiring and very reliable."</p> + +<p>She crouched on the shore, a rather forlorn +figure. The peaks of the Mission Range, across the +violet-shadowed mirror of Flathead Lake, were a +sudden pure rose, in reflection of sunset, then stony, +forbidding. Across the road, on the Barmberry porch, +she could hear her father saying "Ah?" and "Indeed?" +to James's stories.</p> + +<p>Up the road, a blaring horn, great lights growing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span> +momently more dazzling, a roar, a rush, the halting +car, and out of its blurred bulk, a trim figure darting—Jeff +Saxton—home and the people she loved, and the +ways and days she knew best of all. He had shouted +only "Is Miss——" before she had rushed to him, +into the comfort of his arms, and kissed him.</p> + +<p>She backed off and tried to sound as if it hadn't +happened, but she was quavery: "I can't believe it! +It's too ridiculously wonderful to see you!" She +retreated toward the Barmberry porch, Jeff following, +his two hands out. They came within the range of +the house lights, and Mr. Boltwood hailed, "Ah! +Geoffrey! Never had such a surprise—nor a more +delightful one!"</p> + +<p>"Mr. Boltwood! Looking splendid, sir! New +man! William Street better look to its laurels when +you come back and get into the game!"</p> + +<p>Then, on the lamp-lighted porch, the two men +shook hands, and looked for some other cordial thing +to do. They thought about giving each other cigars. +They smiled, and backed away, and smiled, in the +foolish, indeterminate way males have, being unable +to take it out in kissing. Mr. Boltwood solved the +situation by hemming, "Must trot in and wash. See +you very soon." Mr. James Barmberry and the squad +of lesser Barmberrys regretfully followed. Claire +was alone with Jeff, and she was frightened. Yet she +was admitting that Jeff, in his English cap and flaring<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span> +London top-coat, his keen smile and his extreme +shavedness, was more attractive than she had remembered.</p> + +<p>"Glad to see me?" he demanded.</p> + +<p>"Oh, rather!"</p> + +<p>"You're looking——"</p> + +<p>"You're so——"</p> + +<p>"Nice trip? You know you've sent me nothing but +postcards with 'Pretty town,' or something equally +sentimental."</p> + +<p>"Yes, it's really been bully. These mountains and +big spaces simply inspire me." She said it rather defiantly.</p> + +<p>"Of course they do! Trouble is, with you away, +we've nothing to inspire us!"</p> + +<p>"Do you need anything, with your office and your +club?"</p> + +<p>"Why, Claire!"</p> + +<p>"I'm sorry. That was horrid of me."</p> + +<p>"Yes, it was. Though I don't mind. I'm sure +we've all become meek, missing you so. I'm quite +willing to be bullied, and reminded that I'm a mere +T.B.M."</p> + +<p>She had got herself into it; she had to tell him that +he wasn't just a business man; that she had "just +meant" he was so practical.</p> + +<p>"But Jeff is no longer the practical one," he declared. +"Think of Claire driving over deserts and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span> +mountains. But—— Oh, it's been so lonely for us. +Can you guess how much? A dozen times every evening, +I've turned to the telephone to call you up and +beg you to let me nip in and see you, and then realized +you weren't there, and I've just sat looking at the +'phone—— Oh, other people are so dull!"</p> + +<p>"You really miss——"</p> + +<p>"I wish I were a poet, so I could tell you adequately. +But you haven't said you missed me, Claire. Didn't +you, a teeny bit? Wouldn't it have been tolerable to +have poor old Jeff along, to drive down dangerous +hills——"</p> + +<p>"And fill grease-cups! Nasty and stickum on the +fingers!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, I'd have done that, too. And invented surprises +along the way. I'm a fine surpriser! I've +arranged for a motor-boat so we can explore the lake +here tomorrow. That's why I had you wait here instead +of coming on to Kalispell. Tomorrow morning, +unfortunately, I have to hustle back and catch a train—called +to California, and possibly a northern trip. +But meantime—— By now, my driver must have +sneaked my s'prises into the kitchen."</p> + +<p>"What are they?"</p> + +<p>"Guess."</p> + +<p>"Food. Eats. Divine eats."</p> + +<p>"Maybe."</p> + +<p>"But what? Please, sir. Claire is so hungry."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span>"We shall see in time, my child. Uncle Jeff is not +to be hurried."</p> + +<p>"Ah—let—me—see—now! I'll kick and scream!"</p> + +<p>From New York Jeff had brought a mammoth +picnic basket. To the fried chicken ordered for dinner +he added sealed jars of purée of wood pigeon, of +stuffed artichokes prepared by his club chef; caviar +and anchovies; a marvelous nightmare-creating fruit +cake to go with the whipped cream; two quarts of a +famous sherry; candied fruits in a silver box. Dinner +was served not on the dining-porch but before the fire +in the Barmberrys' living-room. Claire looked at the +candied fruits, stared at Jeff rather queerly—as though +she was really thinking of some one else—and mused:</p> + +<p>"I didn't know I cared so much for these foolish +luxuries. Tonight, I'd like a bath, just a tiny bit +scented, and a real dressing-table with a triple mirror, +and French talc, and come down in a dinner-gown—— Oh, +I have enjoyed the trip, Jeff. But my poor body +does get so tired and dusty, and then you treacherously +come along with these things that you've magicked +out of the mountains and—— I'm not a pioneer +woman, after all. And Henry B. is not a caveman. +See him act idolatrously toward his soup."</p> + +<p>"I feel idolatrous. I'd forgotten the supreme ethical +importance of the soup. I'll never let myself +forget it again," said Mr. Boltwood, in the tone of +one who has come home.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span>Claire was grateful to Jeff that he did not let her +go on being grateful. He turned the talk to Brooklyn. +He was neat and explicit—and almost funny—in his +description of an outdoor presentation of <i>Midsummer +Night's Dream</i>, in which a domestic and intellectual +lady weighing a hundred and eighty-seven stageside +had enacted Puck. As they sat after dinner, as Claire +shivered, he produced a knitted robe, and pulled it +about her shoulders, smiling at her in a lonely, hungry +way. She caught his hand.</p> + +<p>"Nice Jeff!" she whispered.</p> + +<p>"Oh, my dear!" he implored. He shook his head +in a wistful way that caught her heart, and dutifully +went back to informing Mr. Boltwood of the true +state of the markets.</p> + +<p>"Talk to Claire too!" she demanded. She stopped, +stared. From outside she heard a nervous pit-pit-pit, +a blurred dialogue between Mr. James Barmberry and +another man. Into the room rambled Milt Daggett, +dusty of unpressed blue suit, tired of eyes, and not +too well shaved of chin, grumbling, "Thought I'd +never catch up with you, Claire—— Why——"</p> + +<p>"Oh! Oh, Milt—Mr. Daggett—— Oh, Jeff, this +is our good friend Milt Daggett, who has helped us +along the road."</p> + +<p>Jeff's lucid rimless spectacles stared at Milt's wind-reddened +eyes; his jaunty patch-pocket outing clothes +sniffed at Milt's sweater; his even voice followed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span> +Milt's grunt of surprise with a curt "Ah. Mr. +Daggett."</p> + +<p>"Pleased meet you," faltered Milt.</p> + +<p>Jeff nodded, turned his shoulder on Milt, and went +on, "The fact is, Mr. Boltwood, the whole metal +market——"</p> + +<p>Milt was looking from one to another. Claire was +now over her first shocked comparison of candied +fruits with motor grease. She rose, moved toward +Milt, murmuring, "Have you had dinner?"</p> + +<p>The door opened again. A pink-haired, red-faced +man in a preposterous green belted suit lunged in, +swept his broad felt hat in greeting, and boomed like a +cheap actor:</p> + +<p>"Friends of my friend Milt, we about to dine salute +you. Let me introduce myself as Westlake Parrott, +better known to the vulgar as Pinky Parrott, gentleman +adventurer, born in the conjunction of Mars and +Venus, with Saturn ascendant."</p> + +<p>Jeff had ignored Milt. But at this absurd second +intrusion on his decidedly private dinner-party he +flipped to the center of the room and said "I beg +your pardon!" in such a head-office manner that the +pink-locked Mystery halted in his bombast. Claire +felt wabbly. She had no theories as to where Milt +had acquired a private jester, nor as to what was about +to happen to Milt—and possibly to her incautious +self.</p> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER XVII<br /> +THE VAGABOND IN GREEN</h2> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">As</span> Milt had headed westward from Butte, as he +rattled peacefully along the road, conscious of +golden haze over all the land, and the unexpectedness +of prairie threshing-crews on the sloping fields of +mountainsides, a man had stepped out from bushes +beside the road, and pointed a .44 navy revolver.</p> + +<p>The man was not a movie bandit. He wore a green +imitation of a Norfolk jacket, he had a broad red +smile, and as he flourished his hat in a bow, his hair +was a bristly pompadour of gray-streaked red that +was almost pink. He made oration:</p> + +<p>"Pardon my eccentric greeting, brother of the open +road, but I wanted you to give ear to my obsequious +query as to how's chances on gettin' a lift? I have +learned that obsequiousness is best appreciated when +it is backed up by prayer and ca'tridges."</p> + +<p>"What's the idea? I seem to gather you'd like a +lift. Jump in."</p> + +<p>"You do not advocate the Ciceronian style, I take +it," chuckled the man as he climbed aboard.</p> + +<p>Milt was not impressed. Claire might have been, +but Milt had heard politics and religion argued about +the stove in Rauskukle's store too often to be startled<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span> +by polysyllabomania. He knew it was often the sign +of a man who has read too loosely and too much by +himself. He snorted. "Huh! What are you—newspaper, +politics, law, preacher, or gambler?"</p> + +<p>"Well, a little of all those interesting occupations. +And ten-twent-thirt trouping, and county-fair spieling, +and selling Dr. Thunder Rapids' Choctaw Herbal +Sensitizer. How far y' going?"</p> + +<p>"Seattle."</p> + +<p>"Honest? Say, kid, this is—— Muh boy, we +shall have the rare privilege of pooling adventures as +far as Blewett Pass, four to six days' run from here—a +day this side of Seattle. I'm going to my gold-mine +there. I'll split up on the grub—I note from your kit +that you camp nights. Quite all right, my boy. Pinky +Parrott is no man to fear night air."</p> + +<p>He patted Milt's shoulder with patronizing insolence. +He filled a pipe and, though the car was +making twenty-five, he lighted the pipe with distinguished +ease, then settled down to his steady stride:</p> + +<p>"In the pride of youth, you feel that you have thoroughly +categorized me, particularly since I am willing +to admit that, though I shall have abundance of the +clinking iron men to buy my share of our chow, I +chance just for the leaden-footed second to lack the +wherewithal to pay my railroad fare back to Blewett; +and the bumpers and side-door Pullman of the argonauts +like me not. Too damn dusty. But your analysis<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span> +is unsynthetic, though you will scarce grasp my +paradoxical metaphor."</p> + +<p>"The hell I won't. I've taken both chemistry and +rhetoric," growled Milt, strictly attending to driving, +and to the desire to get rid of his parasite.</p> + +<p>"Oh! Oh, I see. Well, anyway: I am no mere +nimble knight of wits, as you may take it. In fact, +I am lord of fair acres in Arcady."</p> + +<p>"Don't know the burg. Montana or Idaho?"</p> + +<p>"Neither! In the valley of dream!"</p> + +<p>"Oh! That one. Huh!"</p> + +<p>"But I happen to back them up with a perfectly undreamlike +gold-mine. Prospected for it in a canyon +near Blewett Pass and found it, b' gum, and my lady +wife, erstwhile fairest among the society favorites of +North Yakima, now guards it against her consort's +return. Straight goods. Got the stuff. Been to Butte +to get a raise on it, but the fell khedives of commerce +are jealous. They would hearken not. Gee, those +birds certainly did pull the frigid mitt! So I wend my +way back to the demure Dolores, the houri of my +heart, and the next time I'll take a crack at the big +guns in Seattle. And I'll sure reward you for your +generosity in taking me to Blewett, all the long, long, +languid, languorous way——"</p> + +<p>"Too bad I got to stop couple of days at Spokane."</p> + +<p>"Well, then you shall have the pleasure of taking +me that far."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span>"And about a week in Kalispell!"</p> + +<p>"'Twill discommode me, but 'pon honor, I like your +honest simple face, and I won't desert you. Besides! +I know a guy in Kalispell, and I can panhandle the +sordid necessary chuck while I wait for you. Little +you know, my cockerel, how facile a brain your 'bus +so lightly bears. When I've cashed in on the mine, +I'll take my rightful place among the motored gentry. +Not merely as actor and spieler, promoter and inventor +and soldier and daring journalist, have I played my +rôle, but also I am a mystic, an initiate, a clairaudient, +a psychometrist, a Rosicrucian adept, and profoundly +psychic—in fact, my guide is Hermes Trismegistus +himself! I also hold a degree as doctor of mento-practic, +and my studies in astro-biochemistry——"</p> + +<p>"Gonna stop. All off. Make little coffee," said +Milt.</p> + +<p>He did not desire coffee, and he did not desire to +stop, but he did desperately desire not to inflict Pinky +Parrott upon the Boltwoods. It was in his creed as a +lover of motors never to refuse a ride to any one, +when he had room. He hoped to get around his creed +by the hint implied in stopping. Pinky's reaction to +the hint was not encouraging:</p> + +<p>"Why, you have a touch of the psychic's flare! I +could do with coffee myself. But don't trouble to +make a fire. I'll do that. You drive—I do the camp +work. Not but that I probably drive better than you,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span> +if you will permit me to say so. I used to do a bit +of racing, before I took up aviation."</p> + +<p>"Huh! Aviation! What machine d'you fly?"</p> + +<p>"Why, why—a biplane!"</p> + +<p>"Huh! What kind of motor?"</p> + +<p>"Why, a foreign one. The—the—— It was a +French motor."</p> + +<p>"Huh! What track you race on?"</p> + +<p>"The—— Pardon me till I build a fire for our +<i>al fresco</i> collation, and I my driving history will unfold."</p> + +<p>But he didn't do either.</p> + +<p>After he had brought seven twigs, one piece of +sagebrush, and a six-inch board, Pinky let Milt finish +building the fire, while he told how much he knew +about the mysteries of ancient Egyptian priests.</p> + +<p>Milt gave up hope that Pinky would become bored +by waiting and tramp on. After one hour of conversational +deluge, he decided to let Pinky drive—to +make him admit that he couldn't. He was wrong. +Pinky could drive. He could not drive well, he wabbled +in his steering, and he killed the engine on a grade, +but he showed something of the same dashing idiocy +that characterized his talk. It was Milt not Pinky, +who was afraid of their running off the road, and +suggested resuming the wheel.</p> + +<p>Seven times that day Milt tried to lose him. Once +he stopped without excuse, and merely stared up at<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span> +rocks overhanging the hollowed road. Pinky was not +embarrassed. He leaned back in the seat and sang +two Spanish love songs. Once Milt deliberately took +a wrong road, up a mountainside. They were lost, +and took five hours getting back to the highway. +Pinky loved the thrill and—in a brief address lasting +fifteen minutes—he said so.</p> + +<p>Milt tried to bore him by driving at seven miles an +hour. Pinky affectionately accepted this opportunity +to study the strata of the hills. When they camped, +that night, Pinky loved him like a brother, and was +considering not stopping at Blewett Pass, to see his +gold-mine and Dolores the lady-wife, but going clear +on to Seattle with his playmate.</p> + +<p>The drafted host lay awake, and when Pinky awoke +and delivered a few well-chosen words on the subject +of bird-song at dawn, Milt burst out:</p> + +<p>"Pinky, I don't like to do it, but—— I've never +refused a fellow a lift, but I'm afraid you'll have to +hike on by yourself, the rest of the way."</p> + +<p>Pinky sat up in his blankets. "Afraid of me, eh? +You better be! I'm a bad actor. I killed Dolores's +husband, and took her along, see? I——"</p> + +<p>"Are you trying to scare me, you poor four-flusher?" +Milt's right hand expanded, fingers arching, +with the joyous tension of a man stretching.</p> + +<p>"No. I'm just reading your thoughts. I'm telling +you you're scared of me! You think that if I went<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span> +on, I might steal your car! You're afraid because +I'm so suave. You aren't used to smooth ducks. You +don't dare to let me stick with you, even for today! +You're afraid I'd have your mis'able car by tonight! +You don't dare!"</p> + +<p>"The hell I don't!" howled Milt. "If you think +I'm afraid—— Just to show you I'm not, I'll let you +go on today!"</p> + +<p>"That's sense, my boy. It would be a shame for two +such born companions of the road to part!" Pinky +had soared up from his blankets; was lovingly shaking +Milt's hand.</p> + +<p>Milt knew that he had been tricked, but he felt +hopeless. Was it impossible to insult Pinky? He tried +again:</p> + +<p>"I'll be frank with you. You're the worst wind-jamming +liar I ever met. Now don't reach for that +gat of yours. I've got a hefty rock right here handy."</p> + +<p>"But, my dear, dear boy, I don't intend to reach for +any crude lethal smoke-wagon. Besides, there isn't +anything in it. I hocked the shells in Butte. I am not +angry, merely grieved. We'll argue this out as we +have breakfast and drive on. I can prove to you that, +though occasionally I let my fancy color mere untutored +fact with the pigments of a Robert J. Ingersoll—— By +the way, do you know his spiel on +whisky?"</p> + +<p>"Stick to the subject. We'll finish our arguing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span> +right now, and I'll give you breakfast, and we'll sadly +part."</p> + +<p>"Merely because I am lighter of spirits than this +lugubrious old world? No! I decline to be dropped. +I'll forgive you and go on with you. Mind you, I am +sensitive. I will not intrude where I am not welcome. +Only you must give me a sounder reason than my +diverting conversational powers for shucking me. My +logic is even stronger than my hedonistic contempt for +hitting the pike."</p> + +<p>"Well, hang it, if you must know—— Hate to say +it, but I'd do almost anything to get rid of you. Fact +is, I've been sort of touring with a lady and her father, +and you would be in the way!"</p> + +<p>"Aaaaaaah! You see! Why, my boy, I will not +only stick, but for you, I shall do the nimble John +Alden and win the lady fair. I will so bedizen your +virile, though somewhat crassly practical gifts—— Why, +women are my long suit. They fall for——"</p> + +<p>"Tut, tut, tut! You're a fool. She's no beanery +mistress, like you're used to. She really is a lady."</p> + +<p>"How blind you are, cruel friend. You do not +even see that whatever my vices may be, my social +standing——"</p> + +<p>"Oh—shut—up! Can't you see I'm trying to be +kind to you? Have I simply got to beat you up before +you begin to suspect you aren't welcome? Your social +standing isn't even in the telephone book. And your<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span> +vocabulary—— You let too many 'kids' slip in +among the juicy words. Have I got to lick——"</p> + +<p>"Well. You're right. I'm a fliv. Shake hands, +m' boy, and no hard feelings."</p> + +<p>"Good. Then I can drive on nice and alone, without +having to pound your ears off?"</p> + +<p>"Certainly. That is—we'll compromise. You take +me on just a few miles, into more settled country, and +I'll leave you."</p> + +<p>So it chanced that Milt was still inescapably accompanied +by Mr. Pinky Parrott, that evening, when he +saw Claire's Gomez standing in the yard at Barmberry's +and pulled up.</p> + +<p>Pinky had voluntarily promised not to use his eloquence +on Claire, nor to try to borrow money from +Mr. Boltwood. Without ever having quite won permission +to stay, he had stayed. He had also carried +out his promise to buy his half of the provisions by +adding a five-cent bag of lemon drops to Milt's bacon +and bread.</p> + +<p>When they had stopped, Milt warned, "There's +their machine now. Seems to be kind of a hotel here. +I'm going in and say howdy. Good-by, Pink. Glad +to have met you, but I expect you to be gone when I +come out here again. If you aren't—— Want granite +or marble for the headstone? I mean it, now!"</p> + +<p>"I quite understand, my lad. I admire your chivalric +delicacy. Farewell, old <i>compagnon de voyage</i>!"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span>Milt inquired of Mr. Barmberry whether the Boltwoods +were within, and burst into the parlor-living-room-library. +As he cried to Claire, by the fire, +"Thought I'd never catch up with you," he was conscious +that standing up, talking to Mr. Boltwood, was +an old-young man, very suave, very unfriendly of eye. +He had an Oxford-gray suit, unwrinkled cordovan +shoes; a pert, insultingly well-tied blue bow +tie, and a superior narrow pink bald spot. As he +heard Jeff Saxton murmur, "Ah. Mr. Daggett!" +Milt felt the luxury in the room—the fleecy robe over +Claire's shoulders, the silver box of candy by her +elbow, the smell of expensive cigars, and the portly +complacence of Mr. Boltwood.</p> + +<p>"Have you had any dinner?" Claire was asking, +when a voice boomed, "Let me introduce myself as +Westlake Parrott."</p> + +<p>Jeff abruptly took charge. He faced Pinky and +demanded, "I beg pardon!"</p> + +<p>Claire's eyebrows asked questions of Milt.</p> + +<p>"This is a fellow I gave a lift to. Miner—I mean +actor—well, kind of spiritualistic medium——"</p> + +<p>Mr. Boltwood, with the geniality of dinner and +cigar, soothed, "Jeff, uh, Daggett here has saved our +lives two distinct times, and given us a great deal of +help. He is a motor expert. He has always refused +to let us do anything in return but—— I noticed +there was almost a whole fried chicken left. I wonder<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span> +if he wouldn't share it with, uh, with his acquaintance +here before—before they make camp for the night?"</p> + +<p>In civil and vicious tones Jeff began, "Very glad +to reward any one who has been of service to——"</p> + +<p>He was drowned out by Pinky's effusive, "True +hospitality is a virtue as delicate as it is rare. We +accept your invitation. In fact I should be glad to +have one of those cigarros elegantos that mine olfactory——"</p> + +<p>Milt cut in abruptly, "Pink! Shut up! Thanks, +folks, but we'll go on. Just wanted to see if you had +got in safe. See you tomorrow, some place."</p> + +<p>Claire was close to Milt, her fingers on his sleeve. +"Please, Milt! Father! You didn't make your introduction +very complete. You failed to tell Mr. Daggett +that this is Mr. Saxton, a friend of ours in +Brooklyn. Please, Milt, do stay and have dinner. I +won't let you go on hungry. And I want you to know +Jeff—Mr. Saxton.... Jeff, Mr. Daggett is an +engineer, that is, in a way. He's going to take an +engineering course in the University of Washington. +Some day I shall make you bloated copper magnates +become interested in him.... Mrs. Barmberry. +Mrssssssss. Barrrrrrrmberrrrrry! Oh. Oh, Mrs. +Barmberry, won't you please warm up that other +chicken for——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, now, that's too bad. Me and Jim have et it +all up!" wept the landlady, at the door.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span>"I'll go on," stammered Milt.</p> + +<p>Jeff looked at him expressionlessly.</p> + +<p>"You will not go on!" Claire was insisting. "Mrs. +Barmberry, won't you cook some eggs or steak or +something for these boys?"</p> + +<p>"Perhaps," Jeff suggested, "they'd rather make +their own dinner by a campfire. Must be very jolly, +and that sort of thing."</p> + +<p>"Jeff, if you don't mind, this is my party, just for +the moment!"</p> + +<p>"Quite right. Sorry!"</p> + +<p>"Milt, you sit here by the fire and get warm. I'm +not going to be robbed of the egotistic pleasure of +being hospitable. Everybody look happy now!"</p> + +<p>She got them all seated—all but Pinky. He had +long since seated himself, by the fire, in Claire's chair, +and he was smoking a cigar from the box which Jeff +had brought for Mr. Boltwood.</p> + +<p>Milt sat farthest from the fire, by the dining-table. +He was agonizing, "This Jeff person is the real thing. +He's no Percy in riding-breeches. He's used to +society and nastiness. If he looks at me once more—young +garage man found froze stiff, near Flathead +Lake, scared look in eyes, believed to have met a +grizzly, no signs of vi'lence. And I thought I could +learn to mingle with Claire's own crowd! I wish I +was out in the bug. I wonder if I can't escape?"</p> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER XVIII<br /> +THE FALLACY OF ROMANCE</h2> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">During</span> dinner Milt watched Jeff Saxton's manner +and manners. The hot day had turned into +a cold night. Jeff tucked the knitted robe about +Claire's shoulders, when she returned to the fire. He +moved quietly and easily. He kept poking up the fire, +smiling at Claire as he did so. He seemed without +difficulty to maintain two conversations: one with Mr. +Boltwood about finances, one with Claire about mysterious +persons called Fannie and Alden and Chub and +Bobbie and Dot, the mention of whom made Milt +realize how much a stranger he was. Once, as he +passed by Claire, Jeff said gently, "You <i>are</i> lovely!" +Only that, and he did not look at her. But Milt saw +that Claire flushed, and her eyes dimmed.</p> + +<p>Pinky was silent till he had eaten about two-thirds +of the total amount of fried eggs, cold lamb and ice-box +curios. When Claire came over to see how they +fared, Pinky removed himself, with smirking humility, +and firmly joined himself to Jeff and Mr. Boltwood. +He caught the subject of finance and, while Claire +dropped down in the chair by Milt, Pinky was lecturing +the two men from New York:</p> + +<p>"Ah, finance! Queen of the sociological pantheon!<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span> +I don't know how come I am so graced by Fortune as +to have encountered in these wilds two gentlemen so +obviously versed in the stratagems of the great golden +game, but I will take the opportunity to give you gentlemen +some statistics about the gold-deposits still +existent in the Cascades and other ranges that may be +of benefit and certainly will be a surprise to you. It +happens that I have at the present time a mine——"</p> + +<p>Claire was whispering to Milt, "If we can get rid +of your dreadful passenger, I do want you to meet +Mr. Saxton. He may be of use to you some day. +He's terribly capable, and really quite nice. Think! +He happened to be out here, and he traced me by telephone—oh, +he treats long-distance 'phoning as I do +a hair-pin. He brought down the duckiest presents—divertissements +for dinner, and that knitted robe, and +some real René Bleuzet perfume—I was all out of +it—— And after the grime of the road——"</p> + +<p>"Do you really care for things like that, all those +awfully expensive luxuries?" begged Milt.</p> + +<p>"Of course I do. Especially after small hotels."</p> + +<p>"Then you don't really like adventuring?"</p> + +<p>"Oh yes—in its place! For one thing, it makes a +clever dinner seem so good by contrast!"</p> + +<p>"Well—— Afraid I don't know much about clever +dinners," Milt was sighing, when he was aware of +Jeff Saxton looming down on him, demanding:</p> + +<p>"Daggett, would you mind trying to inform your<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span> +friend that neither Mr. Boltwood nor I care to +invest in his gold-mine? We can't seem to get that +into his head. I don't mind being annoyed myself, +but I really feel I must protect Mr. Boltwood."</p> + +<p>"What can I do?"</p> + +<p>"My dear sir, since you brought him here——"</p> + +<p>It was the potassium cyanide and cracked ice and +carpet tacks and TNT and castor oil in Jeff's "My +dear sir" that did it. Milt discovered himself on his +feet, bawling, "I am not your dear sir! Pinky is my +guest, and—— Gee, sorry I lost my temper, Claire, +terrible sorry. See you along the road. Good night. +Pink! You take your hat! Git!"</p> + +<p>Milt followed Pinky out of the door, snarling, "Git +in the car, and do it quick. I'll take you clear to +Blewett Pass. We drive all night."</p> + +<p>Pinky was of great silence and tact. Milt lumped +into the bug beside him. But he did not start the all-night +drive. He wanted to crawl back, on his knees, +to apologize to Claire—and to be slapped by Jeff +Saxton. He compromised by slowly driving a quarter +of a mile up the road, and camping there for the night.</p> + +<p>Pinky tried to speak words of philosophy and +cheer—just once he tried it.</p> + +<p>For hours, by a small fire, Milt grieved that all his +pride was gone in a weak longing to see Claire again. +In the morning he did see her—putting off on the +lake, in a motor-boat with Jeff and Mr. Barmberry.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span> +He saw the boat return, saw Jeff get into the car +which had brought him from Kalispell, saw the farewell, +the long handclasp, the stoop of Jeff's head, and +Claire's quick step backward before Jeff could kiss +her. But Claire waved to Jeff long after his car had +started.</p> + +<hr class="shr" /> + +<p>When Claire and her father came along in the +Gomez, Milt was standing by the road. She stopped. +She smiled. "Night of sadness and regrets? You +were fairly rude, Milt. So was Mr. Saxton, but I've +lectured him, and he sends his apologies."</p> + +<p>"I send him mine—'deed I do," said Milt gravely.</p> + +<p>"Then everything's all right. I'm sure we were +all tired. We'll just forget it."</p> + +<p>"Morning, Daggett," Mr. Boltwood put in. "Hope +you lose that dreadful red-headed person."</p> + +<p>"No, I can't, Mr. Boltwood. When Mr. Saxton +turned on me, I swore I'd take Pinky clear through +to Blewett Pass ... though not to Seattle, by +golly!"</p> + +<p>"Foolish oaths should be broken," Claire platitudinized.</p> + +<p>"Claire—look—— You don't really care so terribly +much about these little luxuries, food and fixin's +and six-dollar-a-day-hotel junk, do you?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," stoutly, "I do."</p> + +<p>"But not compared with mountains and——"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span>"Oh, it's all very well to talk, and be so superior +about these dear old grandeurs of Nature, and the +heroism of pioneers, and I do like a glimpse of them. +But the niceties of life do mean something and even +if it is weak and dependent, I shall always simply +adore them!"</p> + +<p>"All these things are kind of softening." And he +meant that she was still soft.</p> + +<p>"At least they're not rude!" And she meant that +he was rude.</p> + +<p>"They're absolutely trivial. They shut off——"</p> + +<p>"They shut off rain and snow and dirt, and I still +fail to see the picturesqueness of dirt! Good-by!"</p> + +<p>She had driven off, without looking back. She +was heading for Seattle and the Pacific Ocean at +forty miles an hour—and they had no engagement to +meet either in Seattle or in the Pacific.</p> + +<p>Before Milt went on he completed a task on which +he had decided the night before while he had meditated +on the tailored impertinence of Jeff Saxton's +gray suit. The task was to give away the Best Suit, +that stolid, very black covering which at Schoenstrom +had seemed suitable either to a dance or to the +Y. P. S. C. E. The recipient was Mr. Pinky Parrott, +who gave in return a history of charity and high +souls.</p> + +<p>Milt did not listen. He was wondering, now that +they had started, where they had started for. Certainly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span> +not for Seattle! Why not stop and see Pinky's +gold-mine? Maybe he did have one. Even Pinky +had to tell the truth sometimes. With a good popular +gold-mine in his possession, Milt could buy quantities +of clothes like Jeff Saxton's, and——</p> + +<p>"And," he reflected, "I can learn as good manners +as his in one hour, with a dancing lesson thrown in. +If I didn't, I'd sue the professor!"</p> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER XIX<br /> +THE NIGHT OF ENDLESS PINES</h2> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">On</span> the edge of Kootenai Canyon, feeling more like +an aviator than like an automobilist, Claire had +driven, and now, nearing Idaho, she had entered a +national forest. She was delayed for hours, while she +tried to change a casing, after a blow-out when the +spare tire was deflated. She wished for Milt. She +would never see him again. She was sorry. He +hadn't meant——</p> + +<p>But hang it, she panted, if he admired her at all, +he'd be here now and get on this per-fect-ly beast-ly +casing, over which she had been laboring for a dozen +years; and she was simply too ridiculously tired; and +was there any respectful way of keeping Henry B. +from beaming in that benevolent manner while she +was killing herself; and look at those fingernails; and—oh, +drrrrrrat that casing!</p> + +<p>To make the next town, after this delay, she had to +drive for hours by night through the hulking pines of +the national forest. It was her first long night drive.</p> + +<p>A few claims, with log cabins of recent settlers, +once or twice the shack of a forest-ranger, a telephone +in a box by the road or a rough R. F. D. box nailed +to a pine trunk, these indicated that civilization still<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span> +existed, but they were only melancholy blurs. She +was in a cold enchantment. All of her was dead save +the ability to keep on driving, forever, with no hope +of the tedium ending. She was bewildered. She +passed six times what seemed to be precisely the same +forest clearing, always with the road on a tiny ridge +to the left of the clearing, always with a darkness-stilled +house at one end and always, in the pasture at +the other end, a horse which neighed. She was in a +panorama stage-scene; things moved steadily by her, +there was a sound of the engine, and a sensation of +steering, but she was forever in the same place, among +the same pines, with the same scowling blackness between +their bare clean trunks. Only the road ahead +was clear: a one-way track, the foot-high earthy bank +and the pine-roots beside it, two distinct ruts, and a +roughening of strewn brown bark and pine-needles, +which, in the beating light of the car's lamps, made +the sandy road scabrous with little incessant shadows.</p> + +<p>She had never known anything save this strained +driving on. Jeff and Milt were old tales, and untrue. +Was it ten hours before that she had cooked dinner +beside the road? No matter. She wasn't hungry any +longer. She would never reach the next town—and +she didn't care. It wasn't she, but a grim spirit which +had entered her dead body, that kept steering, feeding +gas, watching the road.</p> + +<p>In the darkness outside the funnel of light from her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span> +lamps were shadows that leaped, and gray hands +hastily jerked back out of sight behind tree trunks as +she came up; things that followed her, and hidden +men waiting for her to stop.</p> + +<p>As drivers will, she tried to exorcise the creeping +fear by singing. She made up what she called her +driving-song. It was intended to echo the hoofs of +a fat old horse on a hard road:</p> + +<div class="poem" style="width: 24em;"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">The old horse trots with a jog, jog, jog,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And a jog, jog, jog; and a jog, jog, jog.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And the old road makes a little jog, jog, jog,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">To the west, jog, jog; and the north, jog, jog.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">While the farmer drinks some cider from his jug, jug, jug,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">From his coy jug, jug; from his joy jug, jug.<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Till he accumulates a little jag, jag, jag,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">And he jigs, jigs, jigs, with his jug, jug, jug——<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>The song was a comfort, at first—then a torment. +She drove to it, and she steered to it, and when she +tried to forget, it sang itself in her tired brain: "Jog, +jog, jog—oh, <i>damn</i>!"</p> + +<p>Her father had had a chill. Miserable, weak as a +small boy, he had curled up on the bottom of the car, +his head on the seat, and gone to sleep. She was +alone. The mile-posts went by slowly. The posts +said there was a town ahead called Pellago, but it +never came——</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span>And when it did come she was too tired to care. +In a thick dream she drove through midnight streets +of the town. In stupid paralysis she kicked at the +door of the galvanized-iron-covered garage. No +answer. She gave it up. She drove down the street +and into the yard of a hotel marked by a swing sign +out over the plank sidewalk. She got out the traveling +bags, awakened her father, led him up on the porch.</p> + +<p>The Pellago Tavern was a transformed dwelling +house. The pillars of the porch were aslant, and the +rain-warped boards snapped beneath her feet. She +hesitatingly opened the door. The hallway was dark +and musty. A sound like a moan filtered down the +unlighted stairs.</p> + +<p>There seemed to be light in the room on the right. +Trying to assure herself that her father was a protection, +she pushed open the door. She looked into an +airless room, scattered with rubber boots, unsavory +old corduroy caps, tattered magazines. By the stove +nodded a wry-mouthed, squat old woman, and a tall, +cheaply handsome man of forty. Tobacco juice +stained the front of his stiff-bosomed, collarless shirt. +His hands were white but huge.</p> + +<p>The old woman started. "Well?"</p> + +<p>"I want to get two rooms for the night, please."</p> + +<p>The man smirked at her. The woman creaked, +"Well, I don't know. Where d' you come from, +heh?"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span>"We're motoring through."</p> + +<p>"Heh? Who's that man?"</p> + +<p>"He's my father, madam."</p> + +<p>"Needn't to be so hoity-toity about it, 'he's my +father, madam!' F' that matter, that thing there is +my husband!"</p> + +<p>The man had been dusting his shabby coat, stroking +his mustache, smiling with sickly gallantry. He burbled, +"Shut up, Teenie. This lady is all right. Give +her a room. Number 2 is empty, and I guess Number +7 has been made up since Bill left—if 'tain't, the sheets +ain't been slept on but one night."</p> + +<p>"Where d' you come——"</p> + +<p>"Now don't go shooting off a lot of questions at +the lady, Teenie. I'll show her the rooms."</p> + +<p>The woman turned on her husband. He was perhaps +twenty-five years younger; a quarter-century less +soaked in hideousness. Her yellow, concave-sided +teeth were bared at him, her mouth drew up on one +side above the gums. "Pete, if I hear one word more +out of you, out you go. Lady! Huh! Where d' you +come from, young woman?"</p> + +<p>Claire was too weak to stagger away. She leaned +against the door. Her father struggled to speak, but +the woman hurled:</p> + +<p>"Wherdjuhcomfromised!"</p> + +<p>"From New York. Is there another hotel——"</p> + +<p>"Nah, there ain't another hotel! Oh! So you come<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span> +from New York, do you? Snobs, that's what N' +Yorkers are. I'll show you some rooms. They'll be +two dollars apiece, and breakfast fifty cents extra."</p> + +<p>The woman led them upstairs. Claire wanted to +flee, but—— Oh, she couldn't drive any farther! +She couldn't!</p> + +<p>The floor of her room was the more bare in contrast +to a two-foot-square splash of gritty ingrain +carpet in front of the sway-backed bed. On the bed +was a red comforter that was filthy beyond disguise. +The yellow earthenware pitcher was cracked. The +wall mirror was milky. Claire had been spoiled. She +had found two excellent hotels since Yellowstone +Park. She had forgotten how badly human beings can +live. She protested:</p> + +<p>"Seems to me two dollars is a good deal to charge +for this!"</p> + +<p>"I didn't say two dollars. I said three! Three +each for you and your pa. If you don't like it you +can drive on to the next town. It's only sixteen +miles!"</p> + +<p>"Why the extra dollar—or extra two dollars?"</p> + +<p>"Don't you see that carpet? These is our best +rooms. And three dollars—— I know you New +Yorkers. I heard of a gent once, and they charged +him five dollars—five dol-lars!—for a room in New +York, and a boy grabbed his valise from him and +wanted a short-bit and——"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span>"Oh—all—right! Can we get something to eat?"</p> + +<p>"Now!?"</p> + +<p>"We haven't eaten since noon."</p> + +<p>"That ain't my fault! Some folks can go gadding +around in automobuls, and some folks has to stay at +home. If you think I'm going to sit up all night +cooking for people that come chassayin' in here God +knows what all hours of the day and night——! +There's an all-night lunch down the street."</p> + +<p>When she was alone Claire cried a good deal.</p> + +<p>Her father declined to go out to the lunch room. +The chill of the late ride was still on him, he croaked +through his door; he was shivering; he was going +right to bed.</p> + +<p>"Yes, do, dear. I'll bring you back a sandwich."</p> + +<p>"Safe to go out alone?"</p> + +<p>"Anything's safe after facing that horrible—— I +do believe in witches, now. Listen, dear; I'll bring +you a hot-water bag."</p> + +<p>She took the bag down to the office. The landlady +was winding the clock, while her husband yawned. +She glared.</p> + +<p>"I wonder if I may have some hot water for my +father? He has a chill."</p> + +<p>"Stove's out. No hot water in the house."</p> + +<p>"Couldn't you heat some?"</p> + +<p>"Now look here, miss. You come in here, asking +for meals and rooms at midnight, and you want a cut<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span> +rate on everything, and I do what I can, but enough's +enough!"</p> + +<p>The woman stalked out. Her husband popped up. +"Mustn't mind the old girl, lady. Got a grouch. +Well, you can't blame her, in a way; when Bill lit out, +he done her out of four-bits! But I'll tell you!" he +leered. "You leave me the hot-water biznai, and I'll +heat you some water myself!"</p> + +<p>"Thank you, but I won't trouble you. Good night."</p> + +<p>Claire was surprised to find a warm, rather comfortable +all-night lunch room, called the Alaska Café, +with a bright-eyed man of twenty-five in charge. He +nodded in a friendly way, and made haste with her +order of two ham-and-egg sandwiches. She felt adventurous. +She polished her knife and fork on a +napkin, as she had seen people do in lunches along the +way. A crowd of three rubbed their noses against +the front window to stare at the strange girl in town, +but she ignored them, and they drifted away.</p> + +<p>The lunchman was cordial: "At a hotel, ma'am? +Which one? Gee, not the Tavern?"</p> + +<p>"Why yes. Is there another?"</p> + +<p>"Sure. First-rate one, two blocks over, one up."</p> + +<p>"The woman said the Tavern was the only hotel."</p> + +<p>"Oh, she's an old sour-face. Don't mind her. Just +bawl her out. What's she charging you for a room?"</p> + +<p>"Three dollars."</p> + +<p>"Per each? Gee! Well, she sticks tourists anywheres<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span> +from one buck to three. Natives get by for +fifty cents. She's pretty fierce, but she ain't a patch on +her husband. He comes from Spokane—nobody +knows why—guess he was run out. He takes some +kind of dope, and he cheats at rummy."</p> + +<p>"But why does the town stand either of them? +Why do you let them torture innocent people? Why +don't you put them in the insane hospital, where they +belong?"</p> + +<p>"That's a good one!" her friend chuckled. But +he saw it only as a joke.</p> + +<p>She thought of moving her father to the good hotel, +but she hadn't the strength.</p> + +<p>Claire Boltwood, of Brooklyn Heights, went +through the shanty streets of Pellago, Montana, at +one <span class="smcapl">A.M.</span> carrying a sandwich in a paper bag which had +recently been used for salted peanuts, and a red rubber +hot-water bag filled with water at the Alaska +Café. At the Tavern she hastened past the office door. +She made her father eat his sandwich; she teased him +and laughed at him till the hot-water bag had relieved +his chill-pinched back; she kissed him boisterously, +and started for her own room, at the far end of the +hall.</p> + +<p>The lights were off. She had to feel her way, and +she hesitated at the door of her room before she entered. +She imagined voices, creeping footsteps, +people watching her from a distance. She flung into<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span> +the room, and when the kindled lamp showed her +familiar traveling bag, she felt safer. But once she +was in bed, with the sheet down as far as possible over +the loathly red comforter, the quiet rustled and snapped +about her, and she could not relax. Sinking into sleep +seemed slipping into danger, and a dozen times she +started awake.</p> + +<p>But only slowly did she admit to herself that she +actually did hear a fumbling, hear the knob of her +door turning.</p> + +<p>"W-who's there?"</p> + +<p>"It's me, lady. The landlord. Brought you the +hot water."</p> + +<p>"Thanks so much, but I don't need it now."</p> + +<p>"Got something else for you. Come to the door. +Don't want to holler and wake ev'body up."</p> + +<p>At the door she said timorously, "Nothing else I +want, thank you. D-don't bother me."</p> + +<p>"Why, I've brought you up a sandwich, girlie, all +nice and hot, and a nip of something to take the chill +off."</p> + +<p>"I don't want it, I tell you!"</p> + +<p>"Be a sport now! You use Pete right, and he'll use +you right. Shame to see a lady like you not gettin' +no service here. Open the door. Dandy sandwich!" +The knob rattled again. She said nothing. The heel +of her palm pressed against the door till the molding +ate into it. The man was snorting:</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span>"I ain't going to all this trouble and then throw +away a good sandwich. You asked me——"</p> + +<p>"M-must I s-shout?"</p> + +<p>"S-shout your fool head off!" He kicked the door. +"Good friends of mine, 'long this end of the hall. +Aw, listen. Just teasing. I'm not going to rob you, +little honey bird. Laws, you could have a million +dollars, and old Pete wouldn't take two-bits. I just +get so darn lonely in this hick town. Like to chat to +live ones from the big burg. I'm a city fella myself—Spokane +and Cheyenne and everything."</p> + +<p>In her bare feet, Claire had run across the room, +looked desperately out of the window. Could she +climb out, reach her friend of the Alaska Café? If +she had to——</p> + +<p>Then she grinned. The world was rose-colored +and hung with tinkling bells. "I love even that +Pinky person!" she said. In the yard of the hotel, +beside her Gomez, was a Teal bug, and two men were +sleeping in blankets on the ground.</p> + +<p>She marched over to the door. She flung it open. +The man started back. He was holding an electric, +torch. She could not see him, but to the hovering ball +of light she remarked, "Two men, friends of mine, are +below, by their car. You will go at once, or I'll call +them. If you think I am bluffing, go down and look. +Good night!"</p> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER XX<br /> +THE FREE WOMAN</h2> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">Before</span> breakfast, Claire darted down to the +hotel yard. She beamed at Milt, who was lacing +a rawhide patch on a tire, before she remembered that +they were not on speaking terms. They both looked +extremely sheepish and young. It was Pinky Parrott +who was the social lubricant. Pinky was always on +speaking terms with everybody. "Ah, here she is! +The little lady of the mutinous eyes! Our colonel of +the flivver hussars!"</p> + +<p>But he got no credit. Milt straightened up and +lumbered, "Hel-lo!"</p> + +<p>She peeped at him and whispered, "Hel-lo!"</p> + +<p>"Say, oh please, Claire—— I didn't mean——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I know! Let's—let's go have breakfast."</p> + +<p>"Was awfully afraid you'd think we were fresh, +but when we came in last night, and saw your car—didn't +like the looks of the hotel much, and thought +we'd stick around."</p> + +<p>"I'm so glad. Oh, Milt—yes, and you, Mr. Parrott—will +you whip—lick—beat up—however you +want to say it—somebody for me?"</p> + +<p>With one glad communal smile Milt and Pinky<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span> +curved up their wrists and made motions as of pulling +up their sleeves.</p> + +<p>"But not unless I say so. I want to be a Citizeness +Fixit. I've been good for so long. But now——"</p> + +<p>"Show him to me!" and "Up, lads, and atum!" +responded her squad.</p> + +<p>"Not till after breakfast."</p> + +<p>It was a sufficiently vile breakfast, at the Tavern. +The feature was curious cakes whose interior was +raw creepy dough. A dozen skilled workmen were at +the same long table with Claire, Milt, Pinky, and Mr. +Boltwood—the last two of whom were polite and +scenically descriptive to each other, but portentously +silent about gold-mines. The landlady and a slavey +waited on table; the landlord could be seen loafing in +the kitchen.</p> + +<p>Toward the end of the meal Claire insultingly +crooked her finger at the landlady and said, "Come +here, woman."</p> + +<p>The landlady stared, then ignored her.</p> + +<p>"Very well. Then I'll say it publicly!" Claire +swept the workmen with an affectionate smile. +"Gentlemen of Pellago, I want you to know from one +of the poor tourists who have been cheated at this +nasty place that we depend on you to do something. +This woman and her husband are criminals, in the +way they overcharge for hideous food and——"</p> + +<p>The landlady had been petrified. Now she charged<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span> +down. Behind her came her husband. Milt arose. +The husband stopped. But it was Pinky who faced +the landlady, tapped her shoulder, and launched into, +"And what's more, you hag, if our new friends here +have any sense, they'll run you out of town."</p> + +<p>That was only the beginning of Pinky's paper on +corrections and charities. He enjoyed himself. Before +he finished, the landlady was crying ... she +voluntarily promised to give her boarders waffles, some +morning, jus' soon as she could find the waffle-iron.</p> + +<p>With her guard about her, at the office desk, Claire +paid one dollar apiece for the rooms, and discussion +was not.</p> + +<p>Before they started, Milt had the chance to say to +her, "I'm getting so I can handle Pinky now. Have +to. Thinking of getting hold of his gold-mine. I +just give him the eye, as your friend Mr. Saxton +would, and he gets so meek——"</p> + +<p>"But don't! Please understand me, Milt; I do admire +Mr. Saxton; he is fine and capable, and really +generous; only—— He may be just a bit snippish at +times, while you—you're a playmate—father's and +mine—and—— I did face that landlady, didn't I! +I'm not soft and trivial, am I! Praise!"</p> + +<hr class="shr" /> + +<p>She had driven through the panhandle of Idaho +into Washington, through Spokane, through the writhing +lava deposits of Moses Coulee where fruit trees<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span> +grow on volcanic ash. Beyond Wenatchee, with its +rows of apple trees striping the climbing fields like +corduroy in folds, she had come to the famous climb +of Blewett Pass. Once over that pass, and Snoqualmie, +she would romp into Seattle.</p> + +<p>She was sorry that she hadn't come to know Milt +better, but perhaps she would see him in Seattle.</p> + +<p>Not adventure alone was she finding, but high intellectual +benefit in studying the names of towns in the +state of Washington. Not Kankakee nor Kalamazoo +nor Oshkosh can rival the picturesque fancy of Washington, +and Claire combined the town-names in a lyric +so emotion-stirring that it ought, perhaps, to be the +national anthem. It ran:</p> + +<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Humptulips, Tum Tum, Moclips, Yelm,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Satsop, Bucoda, Omak, Enumclaw,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Tillicum, Bossburg, Chettlo, Chattaroy,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Zillah, Selah, Cowiche, Keechelus,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Bluestem, Bluelight, Onion Creek, Sockeye,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Antwine, Chopaka, Startup, Kapowsin,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Skamokawa, Sixprong, Pysht!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">Klickitat, Kittitas, Spangle, Cedonia,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Pe Ell, Cle Elum, Sallal, Chimacum,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Index, Taholah, Synarep, Puyallup,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Wallula, Wawawai, Wauconda, Washougal,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Walla Walla, Washtucna, Wahluke,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Solkulk, Newaukum, Wahkiakus,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Penawawa, Ohop, Ladd!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span> +<span class="i0">Harrah, Olalla, Umtanum, Chuckanut,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Soap Lake, Loon Lake, Addy, Ace, Usk,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Chillowist, Moxee City, Yellepit, Cashup,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Moonax, Mabton, Tolt, Mukilteo,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Poulsbo, Toppenish, Whetstone, Inchelium,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Fishtrap, Carnation, Shine, Monte Cristo,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Conconully, Roza, Maud!<br /></span> +</div><div class="stanza"> +<span class="i0">China Bend, Zumwalt, Sapolil, Riffle,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Touchet, Chesaw, Chew, Klum, Bly,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Humorist, Hammer, Nooksack, Oso,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Samamish, Dusty, Tiger, Turk, Dot,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Scenic, Tekoa, Nellita, Attalia,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Steilacoom, Tweedle, Ruff, Lisabeula,<br /></span> +<span class="i0">Latah, Peola, Towal, Eltopia,<br /></span> +<span class="i2">Steptoe, Pluvius, Sol Duc, Twisp!<br /></span> +</div></div> + +<p>"And then," complained Claire, "they talk about +Amy Lowell! I leave it to you, Henry B., if any union +poet has ever written as gay a refrain as 'Ohop +Ladd'!"</p> + +<p>She was not merely playing mental whist. She was +trying to keep from worry. All the way she had heard +of Blewett Pass; its fourteen miles of climbing, and +the last half mile of stern pitch. On this eastern side +of the pass, the new road was not open; there was a +tortuous, flint-scattered trail, too narrow, in most +places, for the passing of other cars. Claire was glad +that Milt and Pinky were near her.</p> + +<p>If so many of the race of kind advisers of tourists<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span> +had not warned her about it, doubtless she would have +gone over the pass without difficulty. But their voluntary +croaking sapped her nerve, and her father's. +He kept worrying, "Do you think we better try it?" +When they stopped at a ranch house at the foot of the +climb, for the night, he seemed unusually tired. He +complained of chill. He did not eat breakfast. They +started out silent, depressed.</p> + +<p>He crouched in the corner of the seat. She looked +at him and was anxious. She stopped on the first +level space on the pass, crying, "You are perfectly +miserable. I'm afraid of—— I think we ought to +see a doctor."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I'll be all right."</p> + +<p>But she waited till Milt came pit-pattering up the +slope. "Father feels rather sick. What shall I do? +Turn round and drive to the nearest doctor—at Cashmere, +I suppose?"</p> + +<p>"There's a magnolious medico ahead here on the +pass," Pinky Parrott interrupted. "A young thing, +but they say he's a graduate of Harvard. He's out +here because he has some timber-claims. Look, Milt +o' the Daggett, why don't you drive Miss Boltwood's +'bus—make better time, and hustle the old gent up to +the doc, and I'll come on behind with your machine."</p> + +<p>"Why," Claire fretted, "I hate——"</p> + +<p>A new Milt, the boss, abrupt, almost bullying, +snapped out of his bug. "Good idee. Jump in, Claire.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span> +I'll take your father up. Heh, whasat, Pink? Yes, I +get it; second turn beyond grocery. Right. On we +go. Huh? Oh, we'll think about the gold-mine later, +Pink."</p> + +<p>With the three of them wedged into the seat of the +Gomez, and Pinky recklessly skittering after them in +the bug, they climbed again—and lo! there was no +climb! Unconsciously Claire had hesitated before +dashing at each sharp upsloping bend; had lost headway +while she was wondering, "Suppose the car went +off this curve?" Milt never sped up, but he never +slackened. His driving was as rhythmical as music.</p> + +<p>They were so packed in that he could scarcely reach +gear lever and hand-brake. He halted on a level, and +curtly asked, "That trap-door in the back of the car—convertible +extra seat?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, but we almost never use it, and it's stuck. +Can't get it open."</p> + +<p>"I'll open it all right! Got a big screwdriver? +Want you sit back there. Need elbow room."</p> + +<p>"Perhaps I'd better drive with Mr. Pinky."</p> + +<p>"Nope. Don't think better."</p> + +<p>With one yank he opened the trap-door, revealing a +folding seat, which she meekly took. Back there, she +reflected, "How strong his back looks. Funny how +the little silvery hairs grow at the back of his neck."</p> + +<p>They came to a settlement and the red cedar bungalow +of Dr. Hooker Beach. The moment Claire saw<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[212]</a></span> +the doctor's thin demanding face, she trusted him. He +spoke to Mr. Boltwood with assurance: "All you need +is some rest, and your digestion is a little shaky. Been +eating some pork? Might stay here a day or two. +We're glad to have a glimpse of Easterners."</p> + +<p>Mr. Boltwood went to bed in the Beaches' guest-room. +Mrs. Beach gave Claire and Milt lunch, with +thin toast and thin china, on a porch from which an +arroyo dropped down for a hundred feet. Fir trees +scented the air, and a talking machine played the same +Russian music that was popular that same moment in +New York. And the Beaches knew people who knew +Claire.</p> + +<p>Claire was thinking. These people were genuine +aristocrats, while Jeff Saxton, for all his family and +his assumptions about life, was the eternal climber. +Milt, who had been uncomfortable with Jeff, was +serene and un-self-conscious with the Beaches, and the +doctor gratefully took his advice about his stationary +gas engine. "He's rather like the Beaches in his +simplicity—yes, and his ability to do anything if he +considers it worth while," she decided.</p> + +<p>After lunch, when the doctor and his wife had to +trot off to a patient, Claire proposed, "Let's walk up +to that ledge of rock and see the view, shall we, Milt?"</p> + +<p>"Yes! And keep an eye on the road for Pinky. +The poor nut, he hasn't showed up. So reckless; hope +he hasn't driven the Teal off the road."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span>She crouched at the edge of a rock, where she would +have been frightened, a month before, and looked +across the main road to a creek in a pine-laced gully. +He sat beside her, elbows on knees.</p> + +<p>"Those Beaches—their kin are judges and senators +and college Presidents, all over New England," she +said. "This doctor must be the grandson of the ambassador, +I fancy."</p> + +<p>"Honest? I thought they were just regular folks. +Was I nice?"</p> + +<p>"Of course you were."</p> + +<p>"Did I—did I wash my paws and sit up and beg?"</p> + +<p>"No, you aren't a little dog. I'm that. You're the +big mastiff that guards the house, while I run and +yip." She was turned toward him, smiling. Her hand +was beside him. He touched the back of it with his +forefinger, as though he was afraid he might soil it.</p> + +<p>There seemed to be no reason, but he was trembling +as he stammered, "I—I—I'm d-darn glad I didn't +know they were anybody, or 'd have been as bad as a +flivver driver the first time he tries a t-twelve-cylinder +machine. G-gee your hand is little!"</p> + +<p>She took it back and inspected it. "I suppose it is. +And pretty useless."</p> + +<p>"N-no, it isn't, but your shoes are. Why don't you +wear boots when you're out like this?" A flicker of +his earlier peremptoriness came into his voice. She +resented it:</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span>"My shoes are perfectly sensible! I will not wear +those horrible vegetarian uplift sacks on my feet!"</p> + +<p>"Your shoes may be all right for New York, but +you're not going to New York for a while. You've +simply got to see some of this country while you're +out here—British Columbia and Alaska."</p> + +<p>"Would be nice, but I've had enough roughing——"</p> + +<p>"Chance to see the grandest mountains in the world, +almost, and then you want to go back to tea and all +that junk!"</p> + +<p>"Stop trying to bully me! You have been dictatorial +ever since we started up——"</p> + +<p>"Have I? Didn't mean to be. Though I suppose +I usually am bullying. At least I run things. There's +two kinds of people; those that give orders, and those +that naturally take them; and I belong to the first one, +and——"</p> + +<p>"But my dear Milt, so do I, and really——"</p> + +<p>"And mostly I'd take them from you. But hang +it, Seattle is just a day away, and you'll forget me. +Wish I could kidnap you. Have half a mind to. Take +you way up into the mountains, and when you got used +to roughing it in sure-enough wilderness—say you'd +helped me haul timber for a flume—then we'd be real +pals. You have the stuff in you, but you still need +toughening before——"</p> + +<p>"Listen to me, Milton. You have been reading fiction,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[215]</a></span> +about this man—sometimes he's a lumberjack, +and sometimes a trapper or a miner, but always he's +frightfully hairy—and he sees a charming woman in +the city, and kidnaps her, and shuts her up in some +unspeakable shanty, and makes her eat nice cold boiled +potatoes, and so naturally, she simply adores him! +A hundred men have written that story, and it's an +example of their insane masculine conceit, which I, as +a woman, resent. Shakespeare may have started it, +with his silly <i>Taming of the Shrew</i>. Shakespeare's +men may have been real, but his women were dolls, designed +to please some majesty. You may not know it, +but there are women today who don't live just to please +majesties' fancies. If a woman like me were kidnapped, +she would go on hating the brute, or if she +did give in, then the man would lose anyway, because +she would have degenerated; she'd have turned into a +slave, and lost exactly the things he'd liked in her. +Oh, you cavemen! With your belief that you can +force women to like you! I have more courage than +any of you!"</p> + +<p>"I admit you have courage, but you'd have still +more, if you bucked the wilds."</p> + +<p>"Nonsense! In New York I face every day a +hundred complicated problems you don't know I ever +heard of!"</p> + +<p>"Let me remind you that Brer Julius Cæsar said +he'd rather be mayor in a little Spanish town than<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[216]</a></span> +police commissioner in Rome. I'm king in Schoenstrom, +while you're just one of a couple hundred +thousand bright people in New York——"</p> + +<p>"Really? Oh, at least a million. Thanks!"</p> + +<p>"Oh—gee—Claire, I didn't mean to be personal, +and get in a row and all, but—can't you see—kind of +desperate—Seattle so soon——"</p> + +<p>Her face was turned from him; its thin profile was +firm as silver wire. He blundered off into silence and—they +were at it again!</p> + +<p>"I didn't mean to make you angry," he gulped.</p> + +<p>"Well, you did! Bullying—— You and your men +of granite, in mackinaws and a much-needed shave, +trying to make a well-bred woman satisfied with a +view consisting of rocks and stumps and socks on the +line! Let me tell you that compared with a street +canyon, a mountain canyon is simply dead, and yet +these unlettered wild men——"</p> + +<p>"See here! I don't know if you're firing these adjectives +at me, but I don't know that I'm so much +more unlettered—— You talked about taking French +in your finishing-school. Well, they taught American +in mine!"</p> + +<p>"They would!"</p> + +<p>Then he was angry. "Yes, and chemistry and +physics and Greek and Latin and history and mathematics +and economics, and I took more or less of a +whirl at all of them, while you were fiddling with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[217]</a></span> +ribbons, and then I had to buck mechanics and business +methods."</p> + +<p>"I also 'fiddled' with manners—an unfortunate +omission in your curriculum, I take it! You have been +reasonably rude——"</p> + +<p>"So have you!"</p> + +<p>"I had to be! But I trust you begin to see that even +your strong hand couldn't control a woman's taste. +Kidnapping! As intelligent a boy as you wanting to +imitate these boorish movie——"</p> + +<p>"Not a darn bit more boorish than your smart set, +with its champagne and these orgies at country +clubs——"</p> + +<p>"You know so much about country clubs, don't +you! The worst orgy I ever saw at one was the golf +champion reading the beauty department in <i>Boudoir</i>. +Would you mind backing up your statements about the +vices of myself and my friends——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, you. Oh, I didn't mean——"</p> + +<p>"Then why did you——"</p> + +<p>"Now you're bullying me, and you know that if the +smart set isn't vicious, at least it's so snobbish that it +can't see any——"</p> + +<p>"Then it's wise to be snobbish, because if it did +condescend——"</p> + +<p>"I won't stand people talking about condescending——"</p> + +<p>"Would you mind not shouting so?"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[218]</a></span>"Very well! I'll keep still!"</p> + +<p>Silence again, while both of them looked unhappy, +and tried to remember just what they had been fighting +about. They did not at first notice a small red car +larruping gaily over the road beneath the ledge, +though the driver was a pink-haired man in a green +coat. He was almost gone before Milt choked, "It's +Pinky!"</p> + +<p>"Pink! Pinky!" he bellowed.</p> + +<p>Pinky looked back but, instead of stopping, he sped +up, and kept going.</p> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXI<br /> +THE MINE OF LOST SOULS</h2> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">"That</span> couldn't have been Pinky! Why! Why, +the car he had was red," cried Claire.</p> + +<p>"Sure. The idiot's got hold of some barn paint +somewhere, and tried to daub it over. He's trying to +make a getaway with it!"</p> + +<p>"We'll chase him. In my car."</p> + +<p>"Don't you mind?"</p> + +<p>"Of course not. I do not give up my objections to +the roughing philosophy, but—— You were right +about these shoes—— Oh, don't leave me behind! +Want to go along!"</p> + +<p>These sentences she broke, scattered, and totally lost +as she scrambled after him, down the rocks. He +halted. His lips trembled. He picked her up, carried +her down, hesitated a second while his face—curiously +foreshortened as she looked up at it from his big +arms—twisted with emotion. He set her down gently, +and she climbed into the Gomez.</p> + +<p>It seemed to her that he drove rather too carefully, +too slowly. He took curves and corners evenly. His +face was as empty of expression, as unmelodramatic, +as that of a jitney driver. Then she looked at the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[220]</a></span> +speedometer. He was making forty-eight miles an +hour down hill and forty to thirty on upgrades.</p> + +<p>They were in sight of the fleeing Pinky in two miles. +Pinky looked back; instantly was to be seen pulling +his hat low, stooping over—the demon driver. Milt +merely sat more erect, looked more bland and white-browed +and steady.</p> + +<p>The bug fled before them on a winding shelf road. +It popped up a curve, then slowed down. "He took it +too fast. Poor Pink!" said Milt.</p> + +<p>They gained on that upslope, but as the road +dropped, the bug started forward desperately. Another +car was headed toward them; was drawn to the +side of the road, in one of the occasional widenings. +Pinky passed it so carelessly that, with crawling spine, +Claire saw the outer wheels of the bug on the very +edge of the road—the edge of a fifty-foot drop. Milt +went easily past the halted car—even waved his hand +to the waiting driver.</p> + +<p>This did not seem to Claire at all like the chase +of a thief. She looked casually ahead at Pinky, as he +whirled round an S-shaped curve on the downslope, +then—— It was too quick to see what happened. +The bug headed directly toward the edge of the road, +shot out, went down the embankment, over and over. +It lay absurdly upside-down, its muffler and brake-rods +showing in place of the seat and hood.</p> + +<p>Milt quite carefully stopped the Gomez. The day<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[221]</a></span> +was still—just a breathing of running water in the +deep gully. The topsy-turvy car below them was +equally still; no sight of Pinky, no sound.</p> + +<p>The gauche boy gone from him, Milt took her hand, +pressed it to his cheek. "Claire! You're here! You +might have gone with him, to make room—— Oh, I +was bullying you because I was bullying myself! Trying +to make myself tell you—but oh, you know, you +know! Can you stand going down there? I hate to +have you, but you may be needed."</p> + +<p>"Yes. I'll come," she whispered.</p> + +<p>Their crawl down the rock-rolling embankment +seemed desperately slow.</p> + +<p>"Wait here," bade Milt, at the bottom.</p> + +<p>She looked away from the grotesque car. She had +seen that one side of it was crumpled like paper in an +impatient hand.</p> + +<p>Milt was stooping, looking under; seemed to be saying +something. When he came back, he did not speak. +He wiped his forehead. "Come. We'll climb back +up. Nothing to do, now. Guess you better not try +to help, anyway. You might not sleep well."</p> + +<p>He gave her his hand up the embankment, drove to +the nearest house, telephoned to Dr. Beach. Later she +waited while Milt and the doctor, with two other men, +were raising the car. As she waited she thought of +the Teal bug as a human thing—as her old friend, +to which she had often turned in need.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[222]</a></span>Milt returned to her. "There is one thing for +you to do. Before he died, Pinky asked me to go +get his wife—Dolores, I think it is. She's up in a +side canyon, few miles away. She may want a woman +around. Beach will take care of—of him. Can you +come?"</p> + +<p>"Of course. Oh, Milt, I didn't——"</p> + +<p>"I didn't——"</p> + +<p>"—mean you were a caveman! You're my big brother!"</p> + +<p>"—mean you were a snob!"</p> + +<p>They drove five miles along the highway, then up a +trail where the Gomez brushed the undergrowth on +each side as it desperately dug into moss, rain-gutted +ruts, loose rocks, all on a vicious slant which seemed to +push the car down again. Beside them, the mountain +woods were sacredly quiet, with fern and lily and +green-lit spaces. They came out in a clearing, before +dusk. Beside the clearing was a brook, with a crude +cradle—sign of a not very successful gold miner. Before +a log cabin, in a sway-sided rocker, creaked a +tall, white, flabby woman, once nearly beautiful, now +rubbed at the edges. She rose, huddling her wrapper +about her bosom, as they drove into the clearing and +picked their way through stumps and briars.</p> + +<p>"Where you folks think you're going?" she whimpered.</p> + +<p>"Why, why just——"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[223]</a></span>"I cer'nly am glad to see somebody! I been 'most +scared to death. Been here alone two weeks now. Got +a shotgun, but if anybody come, I guess they'd take +it away from me. I was brought up nice, no rough-house +or—— Say, did you folks come to see the +gold-mine?"</p> + +<p>"M-mine?" babbled Milt.</p> + +<p>"Course not. Pinky said I was to show it, but I'm +so sore on that low-life hound now, I swear I won't +even take the trouble and lie about it. No more gold +in that crick than there is in my eye. Or than there's +flour or pork in the house!"</p> + +<p>The woman's voice was rising. Her gestures were +furious. Claire and Milt stood close, their hands slipping +together.</p> + +<p>"What d' you think of a man that'd go off and leave +a lady without half enough to eat, while he gallivanted +around, trying to raise money by gambling, when he +was offered a good job up here? He's a gambler—told +me he was a rich mine-owner, but never touched +a mine in his life. Lying hound—worst talker in ten +counties! Got a gambler's hand on him, too—I ought +to seen it! Oh, wait till I get hold of him; just wait!"</p> + +<p>Claire thought of the still hand—so still—that she +had seen under the edge of the upturned car. She tried +to speak, while the woman raved on, wrath feeding +wrath:</p> + +<p>"Thank God, I ain't really his wife! My husband<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[224]</a></span> +is a fine man—Mr. Kloh—Dlorus Kloh, my name is. +Mr. Kloh's got a fine job with the mill, at North +Yakima. Oh, I was a fool! This gambler Pinky Parrott, +he comes along with his elegant ways, and he +hands me out a swell line of gab, and I ups and leaves +poor Kloh, and the kid, and the nicest kid—— Say, +please, could you folks take me wherever you're going? +Maybe I could get a job again—used to was a good +waitress, and I ain't going to wait here any longer for +that lying, cheating, mean-talking——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, Mrs. Kloh, please don't! He's dead!" wailed +Claire.</p> + +<p>"Dead? Pinky? Oh—my—God! And I won't +ever see him, and he was so funny and——"</p> + +<p>She threw herself on the ground; she kicked her +heels; she tore at her loosely caught, tarnished blonde +hair.</p> + +<p>Claire knelt by her. "You mustn't—you mustn't—we'll——"</p> + +<p>"Damn you, with your smug-faced husband there, +and your fine auto and all, butting into poor folks' +troubles!" shrieked Dlorus.</p> + +<p>Claire stumbled to her feet, stood with her clenched +right hand to her trembling lips, cupping it with her +nervous left hand. Her shoulders were dejected. +Milt pleaded, "Let's hike out. I don't mind decent +honest grease, but this place—look in at table! Dirty +dishes—— And gin bottles on the floor!"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[225]</a></span>"Desert her? When she needs me so?" Claire +started forward, but Milt caught her sleeve, and admired, +"You were right! You've got more nerve +than I have!"</p> + +<p>"No. I wouldn't dare if—— I'm glad you're here +with me!"</p> + +<p>Claire calmed the woman; bound up her hair; +washed her face—which needed it; and sat on the log +doorstep, holding Dlorus's head in her lap, while +Dlorus sobbed, "Pinky—dead! Him that was so +lively! And he was so sweet a lover, oh, so sweet. +He was a swell fellow; my, he could just make you +laugh and cry, the way he talked; and he was so +educated, and he played the vi'lin—he could do anything—and +athaletic—he would have made me rich. +Oh, let me alone. I just want to be alone and think +of him. I was so bored with Kloh, and no nice dresses +or nothin', and—I did love the kid, but he squalled so, +just all the time, and Pinky come, and he was so +funny—— Oh, let me alone!"</p> + +<p>Claire shivered, then, and the strength seemed to +go from the steady arms that had supported Dlorus's +head. Dusk had sneaked up on them; the clearing was +full of swimming grayness, and between the woman's +screams, the woods crackled. Each time Dlorus spoke, +her screech was like that of an animal in the woods, +and round about them crept such sinister echoes that +Milt kept wanting to look back over his shoulder.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[226]</a></span>"Yes," sighed Claire at last, "perhaps we'd better +go."</p> + +<p>"If you go, I'll kill myself! Take me to Mr. Kloh! +Oh, he was—— My husband, Mr. Kloh. Oh, so +good. Only he didn't understand a lady has to have +her good times, and Pink danced so well——"</p> + +<p>Dlorus sprang up, flung into the cabin, stood in the +dimness of the doorway, holding a butcher knife and +clamoring, "I will! I'll kill myself if you leave me! +Take me down to Mr. Kloh, at North Yakima, tonight!"</p> + +<p>Milt sauntered toward her.</p> + +<p>"Don't you get flip, young man! I mean it! +And I'll kill you——"</p> + +<p>Most unchivalrously, quite out of the picture of +gray grief, Milt snapped, "That'll be about enough +of you! Here! Gimme that knife!"</p> + +<p>She dropped the knife, sniveling, "Oh Gawd, somebody's +always bullying me! And all I wanted was a +good time!"</p> + +<p>Claire herded her into the cabin. "We'll take you +to your husband—tonight. Come, let's wash up, and +I'll help you put on your prettiest dress."</p> + +<p>"Honest, will you?" cried the woman, in high +spirits, all grief put aside. "I got a dandy China +silk dress, and some new white kid shoes! My, Mr. +Kloh, he won't hardly know me. He'll take me back. +I know how to handle him. That'll be swell, going<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[227]</a></span> +back in an automobile. And I got a new hair-comb, +with genuine Peruvian diamonds. Say, you aren't +kidding me along?"</p> + +<p>In the light of the lantern Milt had kindled, Claire +looked questioningly at him. Both of them shrugged. +Claire promised, "Yes. Tonight. If we can make +it."</p> + +<p>"And will you jolly Mr. Kloh for me? Gee, I'll be +awfully scared of him. I swear, I'll wash his dishes +and everything. He's a good man. He—— Say, he +ain't seen my new parasol, neither!"</p> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[228]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXII<br /> +ACROSS THE ROOF OF THE WORLD</h2> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">Claire</span> dressed Dlorus, cooked a dinner of beet +greens, potatoes, and trout; and by bullying and +great sweetness kept Dlorus from too many trips to +the gin bottle. Milt caught the trout, cut wood, locked +in a log shed Pinky's forlorn mining-tools. They +started for North Yakima at eight of the evening, with +Dlorus, back in the spare seat, alternately sobbing and +to inattentive ears announcing what she'd say to the +Old Hens.</p> + +<p>Milt was devoted to persuading the huge cat of a +car to tiptoe down the slippery gouged ruts of the +road, and Claire's mind was driving with him. Every +time he touched the foot-brake, she could feel the +strain in the tendons of her own ankle.</p> + +<p>A mile down the main road they stopped at a store-post-office +to telephone back to Mr. Boltwood and Dr. +Beach. On the porch was a man in overalls and laced +boots. He was lean and quick-moving. As he raised +his head, and his spectacles flashed, Claire caught Milt's +arm and gasped, "Oh, my dear, I'm in a beautiful +state of nerves. For a moment I thought that was +Jeff Saxton. I bet it is his astral body!"</p> + +<p>"And you thought he was going to forbid your<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[229]</a></span> +running away on this fool expedition, and you were +scared," chuckled Milt, as they sat in the car.</p> + +<p>"Of course I was! And I still am! I know what +he'll say afterward! He <i>is</i> here, reasoning with me. +Oughtn't I to be sensible? Oughtn't I to have you +leave me at the Beaches' before you start—jolly jaunt +to take a strange woman to her presumably homicidal +husband! Why am I totally lacking in sense? Just +listen to what Jeff is saying!"</p> + +<p>"Of course you ought to go back, and let me drive +alone. Absolutely insane, your——"</p> + +<p>"But you would like me to go along, wouldn't +you!"</p> + +<p>"Like you to? It's our last ride together, and that +bloomin' old Browning never thought of a ride together +by midnight over the roof of the world! No, +it's really our first ride together, and tomorrow—you're +gone."</p> + +<p>"No, I sha'n't be gone, but——" Addressing herself +to the astounded overalled man on the porch, she +declared, "You're quite right, Jeff. And Milt is +wrong. Insane adventure. Only, it's wonderful to +be young enough to do insane adventures. Falling +down abyssy places is so much more interesting than +bridge. I'm going—going—going!... Milt, you telephone."</p> + +<p>"Don't you think you better?"</p> + +<p>"No, siree! Father would forbid me. Try not<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[230]</a></span> +to get him—just tell Dr. Beach where we're going, +and hang up, and scoot!"</p> + +<p>All night they drove; down the Pacific side of +Blewett Pass; down the sweeping spirals to a valley. +Dlorus drowsed in the extra seat. Claire's sleepy +head was fantastically swaying. She was awakened +by an approaching roar and, as though she sat at a +play, she watched a big racing machine coming toward +them, passing them with two wheels in the ditch. She +had only a thunderous glimpse of the stolid driver; a +dark, hooded, romantic figure, like a sailor at the +helm in a storm.</p> + +<p>Milt cried, "Golly! May be a transcontinental +racer! Be in New York in five days—going night +and day—take mud at fifty an hour—crack mechanic +right from the factory—change tires in three minutes—people +waiting up all night to give him gasoline +and a sandwich! That's my idea of fun!"</p> + +<p>Studying Milt's shadowed face, Claire considered, +"He could do it, too. Sitting there at the wheel, +taking danger and good road with the same steadiness. +Oh, he's—well, anyway, he's a dear boy."</p> + +<p>But what she said was:</p> + +<p>"Less dramatic things for you, now, Milt. Trigonometry +is going to be your idea of fun; blueprints +and engineering books."</p> + +<p>"Yes. I know. I'm going to do it. Do four +years' work in three—or two. I'll tack pages of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[231]</a></span> +formulas on the wall, in my bum hallroom, and study +'em while I'm shaving. Oh, I'll be the grind! But +learn to dance the fox-trot, though! If America gets +into the war, I'll get into the engineering corps, and +come back to school afterward."</p> + +<p>"Will the finances——"</p> + +<p>"I'll sell my garage, by mail. Rauskukle will take +it. He won't rob me of more than a thousand dollars +on price—not much more."</p> + +<p>"You're going to love Seattle. And we'll have some +good tramps while I'm there, you and I."</p> + +<p>"Honestly? Will you want to?"</p> + +<p>"Do you suppose for one second I'd give up my +feeling of free air? If you don't come and get me, +I'll call on you and make you come!"</p> + +<p>"Warn you I'll probably be living over some +beanery."</p> + +<p>"Probably. With dirty steps leading up to it. I'll +sweep the steps. I'll cook supper for you. I can do +things, can't I! I did manage Dlorus, didn't I!"</p> + +<p>He was murmuring, "Claire, dear!" when she +changed her tone to the echo of Brooklyn Heights, +and hurried on, "You do understand, don't you! +We'll be, uh, good friends."</p> + +<p>"Yes." He drove with much speed and silence.</p> + +<p>Though they were devouring the dark road, though +roadside rocks, caught by the headlights, seemed to +fly up at them, though they went on forever, chased<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[232]</a></span> +by a nightmare, Claire snuggled down in security. +Her head drooped against his shoulder. He put his +arm about her, his hand about her waist. She sleepily +wondered if she ought to let him. She heard herself +muttering, "Sorry I was so rude when you were so +rude," and her chilly cheek discovered that the smooth-worn +shoulder of his old blue coat was warm, and she +wondered some more about the questions of waists +and hands and—— She was asleep.</p> + +<p>She awoke, bewildered to find that dawn was slipping +into the air. While she had slept Milt had taken +his arm from about her and fished out a lap-robe for +her. Behind them, Dlorus was slumbering, with her +soft mouth wide open. Claire felt the luxury of the +pocket of warmth under the lap-robe; she comfortably +stretched her legs while she pictured Milt driving on +all the night, rigid, tireless, impersonal as the engineer +of a night express.</p> + +<p>They came into North Yakima at breakfast time, +and found the house of Mr. Kloh, a neat, bare, drab +frame box, with tight small front and back yards. +Dlorus was awake, and when she wasn't yawning, she +was enjoying being hysterical.</p> + +<p>"Miss Boltwood," she whined, "you go in and +jolly him up."</p> + +<p>Milt begged, "Better let me do it, Claire."</p> + +<p>They looked squarely at each other. "No, I think +I'd better," she decided.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[233]</a></span>"Right, Claire, but—I wish I could do more things +for you."</p> + +<p>"I know!"</p> + +<p>He lifted her stiff, cold little body from the car. +His hands under her arms, he held her on the running-board +an instant, her eyes level with his. "Little +sister—plucky little sister!" he sighed. He lowered +her to the ground.</p> + +<p>Claire knocked at the back door. To it came a +bald, tired man, in an apron wet at the knees. The +kitchen floor was soaped, and a scrubbing-brush rode +amid the seas. A rather dirty child clung to his +hand. "Trying to clean up, ma'am. Not very good +at it. I hope you ain't the Cruelty to Children lady. +Willy looks mussed, but fact is, I just can't get time +to wash the clothes, but he means a terrible lot to me. +What was it? Will you step in?"</p> + +<p>Claire buttoned the child's rompers before she spoke. +Then:</p> + +<p>"Mr. Kloh, I want to be perfectly honest with you. +I've had word from your wife. She's unhappy, and +she loves and admires you more than any other man in +the world, and I think she would come back—misses +the child so."</p> + +<p>The man wiped his reddened hands. "I don't +know—— I don't wish her no harm. Trouble was, +I'm kind of pokey. I guess I couldn't give her any +good times. I used to try to go to dances with her,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[234]</a></span> +but when I'd worked late, I'd get sleepy and—— She's +a beautiful woman, smart 's a whip, and I guess +I was too slow for her. No, she wouldn't never come +back to me."</p> + +<p>"She's out in front of the house now—waiting!"</p> + +<p>"Great Cæsar's ghost, and the floor not scrubbed!" +With a squawk of anxiety he leaped on the scrubbing-brush, +and when Milt and Dlorus appeared at the door, +Mr. Kloh and Miss Claire Boltwood were wiping up +the kitchen floor.</p> + +<p>Dlorus looked at them, arms akimbo, and sighed, +"Hello, Johnny, my, ain't it nice to be back, oh, you +had the sink painted, oh, forgive me, Johnny, I was +a bad ungrateful woman, I don't care if you don't +never take me to no more dances, hardly any, Willy +come here, dear, oh, he is such a sweet child, my, his +mouth is so dirty, will you forgive me, Johnny, is my +overcoat in the moth-balls?"</p> + +<p>When Mr. Kloh had gone off to the mill—thrice +returning from the gate to kiss Dlorus and to thank +her rescuers—Claire sat down and yawningly lashed +off every inch of Dlorus's fair white skin:</p> + +<p>"You're at it already; taking advantage of that +good man's forgiveness, and getting lofty with him, +and rather admiring yourself as a spectacular sinner. +You are a lazy, ignorant, not very clean woman, and +if you succeed in making Mr. Kloh and Willy happy, +it will be almost too big a job for you. Now if I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[235]</a></span> +come back from Seattle and find you misbehaving +again——"</p> + +<p>Dlorus broke down. "You won't, miss! And I +will raise chickens, like he wanted, honest I will!"</p> + +<p>"Then you may let me have a room to take a +nap in, and perhaps Mr. Daggett could sleep in there +on the sofa, and we'll get rested before we start +back."</p> + +<p>Both Milt and Dlorus meekly followed the boss.</p> + +<p>It was noon before Milt and Claire woke, and discovered +that Dlorus had prepared for them scrambled +eggs and store celery, served on an almost clean table-cloth. +Mr. Kloh came home for lunch, and while +Dlorus sat on his lap in the living-room, and repeated +that she had been a "bad, naughty, 'ittle dirl—what +did the fellows say at the mill?" Milt and Claire +sat dumpily on the back porch, regarding scenery +which featured of seven tin cans, a broken patent +washing-machine, and a rheumatic pear tree.</p> + +<p>"I suppose we ought to start," groaned Claire.</p> + +<p>"I have about as much nerve as a rabbit, and as +much punch as a bale of hay," Milt admitted.</p> + +<p>"We're like two children that have been playing +too long."</p> + +<p>"But don't want to go home!"</p> + +<p>"Quite! Though I don't think much of your idea +of a playhouse—those tin cans. But it's better than +having to be grown-up."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[236]</a></span>In the midst of which chatter they realized that Mr. +Henry B. Boltwood and Dr. Hooker Beach had come +round the corner of the house, and were gaping at +them.</p> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[237]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXIII<br /> +THE GRAEL IN A BACK YARD IN YAKIMA</h2> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">"I must</span> say that you two have chosen a fine +pastoral scene!" observed Mr. Boltwood.</p> + +<p>"Hhhhhhhhow did you get here?" gasped Claire.</p> + +<p>"Auto 'bus over Blewett Pass, train here from +Ellensburg. That woman—everything all right?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, everything's fine. We were just starting +back, sir," implored Milt.</p> + +<p>"Huh!"</p> + +<p>"Awfully sorry, sir, to take Claire on such a +hike——"</p> + +<p>"I don't blame you particularly. When that young +woman gets an idea into her head, the rest of us are +pawns. Why, even me—she's dragged me all over the +Rocky Mountains. And I will admit, Claire, that it's +been good for me. But I begin to feel human again, +and I think it's about time I took charge. We'll catch +the afternoon train for Seattle, Claire. The trip has +been extremely interesting, but I think perhaps we'll +call it enough. Daggett, want to get you to drive the +Gomez on to Seattle. Beach tells me your car is +completely wrecked. Lose any money in it?"</p> + +<p>"No, sir. Had my roll in the bug. I'll have to +go back to it and get some clothes out of it, though."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[238]</a></span>"Well, then, will you drive my car in? Charge +me anywhere up to fifty dollars, if you want to——"</p> + +<p>"I'd rather not——"</p> + +<p>"It's a perfectly honest job—I'd do it, too quick! +Or if your confounded pride won't let you charge +anything, bring the car on anyway. Come, dolly, I +have a jitney here, please observe my graceful use of +'jitney,' and I have the bags. We'll hustle to the +station now. No! No arguments, chick!"</p> + +<p>On the station platform, Claire and Milt were under +the surveillance of Mr. Boltwood, who was extremely +irritable as every two minutes the train was reported +to be two minutes later. They tramped up and down, +speaking in lowered voices, very meek but in their +joint naughtiness very intimate.</p> + +<p>"That was a nice place to end a transcontinental +drive—in the back yard of Mr. Johnny Kloh, with +an unrestricted view of tin cans!" lamented Claire.</p> + +<p>"Still, your drive didn't end at Kloh's; it ended +way up in the mountains."</p> + +<p>Mr. Boltwood bumbled down on them: "Another +minute late! Like to know what the matter is!"</p> + +<p>"Yes, father!"</p> + +<p>When Mr. Boltwood's impatiently waiting back was +turned, Claire gripped Milt's hand, and whispered to +him, "You see, I'm captured! I thought I was +father's lord and chauffeur, but he sniffs the smoke +of the ticker. In his mind, he's already back in the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[239]</a></span> +office, running things. He'll probably turn me over to +Jeff, for disciplining! You won't let them change me +back into a pink-face, will you? Come to tea, at the +Gilsons', just as soon as you reach Seattle."</p> + +<p>"Tea—— Now we're so near your Gilsons, I +begin to get scared. Wouldn't know what to do. Gee, +I've heard you have to balance a tea-cup and a sandwich +and a hunk o' cake and a lot of conversation +all at once! I'd spill the tea, and drop crumbs, and +probably have the butler set on me."</p> + +<p>"You will not! And if you did—can't you see?—it +wouldn't matter! It just wouldn't matter!"</p> + +<p>"Honestly? Claire dear, do you know why I came +on this trip? In Schoenstrom, I heard you say you +were going to Seattle. That moment, I decided I +would, too, and get acquainted with you, if murder +would do it. But, oh, I'm clumsy."</p> + +<p>"You've seen me clumsy, in driving. You taught +me to get over it. Perhaps I can teach you some +things. And we'll study—together—evenings! I'm a +thoroughly ignorant parasite woman. Make me become +real! A real woman!"</p> + +<p>"Dear—dear——"</p> + +<p>Mr. Boltwood loomed on them. "The train's coming, +at last. We'll have a decent sleep for once, at +the Gilsons'. I've wired them to meet us." He departed.</p> + +<p>"Terribly glad your father keeps coming down on<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[240]</a></span> +us, because it scares me so I get desperate," said Milt. +"Golly, I think I can hear the train. I, uh, Claire, +Claire dear——"</p> + +<p>"Milt, are you proposing to me? Please hurry, +because that is the train. Isn't it absurd—some day +you'll have to propose all over again formally, for the +benefit of people like father, when you and I already +know we're partners! We've done things together, +not just danced together! When you're an engineer, +you'll call me, and I'll come a-running up to Alaska. +And sometimes you'll come with me to Brooklyn—we'll +be a couple of bombs—— There's the train. +Oh, playmate, hurry with your engineering course! +Hurry, hurry, hurry! Because when it's done, +then—— Whither thou goest, there I go also! And +you did bully me, you did, you did, and I like it, +and—— Yes, father, the bags are right here. Telephone +me, minute you reach Seattle, dear, and we'll +have a private lesson in balancing tea-cups—— Yes, +father, I have the tickets. So glad, dear, the trip +smashed up like this—shocked me into reality—made +me realize I've been with you every hour since I dismissed +you, back in Dakota, and you looked at me, big +hurt eyes, like a child, and—— Yes, father, Pullman's +at the back. Yes, I'm coming!"</p> + +<p>"W-wait! D-did you know I was going to +propose?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. Ever since the Yellowstone. Been trying to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[241]</a></span> +think of a nice way to refuse you. But there isn't +any. You're like Pinky—can't get rid of you—have +t' adopt you. Besides, I've found out——"</p> + +<p>"You love me?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know! How can I tell? But I do like +to drive with my head on your shoulder and—— Yesssss, +father, coming!"</p> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[242]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXIV<br /> +HER OWN PEOPLE</h2> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">Mr. Henry B. Boltwood</span> was decorously +asleep in a chair in the observation car, and +Claire, on the wide back platform, sat unmoving, apparently +devoted to agriculture and mountain scenery. +But it might have been noted that her hand clenched +one of the wooden supports of her camp-stool, and +that her hunched back did not move.</p> + +<p>When she had turned to follow her father into the +train, Milt had caught her shoulders and kissed her.</p> + +<p>For half an hour that kiss had remained, a perceptible +warm pressure on her lips. And for half an hour +she had felt the relief of gliding through the mountains +without the strain of piloting, the comfort of +having the unseen, mysterious engineer up ahead +automatically drive for her. She had caroled to her +father about nearing the Pacific. Her nervousness +had expressed itself in jerky gaiety.</p> + +<p>But when he had sneaked away for a nap, and +Claire could no longer hide from herself by a veil of +chatter the big decision she had made on the station +platform, then she was lonely and frightened—and +very anxious to undecide the decision. She could not +think clearly. She could see Milt Daggett only as a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[243]</a></span> +solemn young man in an inferior sweater, standing by +the track in a melancholy autumnal light, waving to +her as the train pulled out, disappearing in a dun +obscurity, less significant than the station, the receding +ties, or the porter who was, in places known only +to his secretive self, concealing her baggage.</p> + +<p>She could only mutter in growing panic, "I'm crazy. +In-sane! Pledging myself to this boy before I know +how he will turn out. Will he learn anything besides +engineering? I know it—I do want to stroke his +cheek and—his kiss frightened me, but—— Will I +hate him when I see him with nice people? Can I +introduce him to the Gilsons? Oh, I was mad; so +wrought up by that idiotic chase with Dlorus, and so +sure I was a romantic heroine and—— And I'm +simply an indecisive girl in a realistic muddle!"</p> + +<p>Threatened by darkness and the sinister evening +chill of the mountains, with the train no longer cheerfully +climbing the rocky ridge but rumbling and snorting +in the defiles, and startling her with agitating forward +leaps as though the brakes had let go, she could +not endure the bleak platform, and even less could she +endure sitting in the chair car, eyed by the smug +tourists—people as empty of her romance as they +were incapable of her sharp tragedy. She balanced +forward to the vestibule. She stood in that cold, +swaying, darkling place that was filled with the smell +of rubber and metal and grease and the thunderous<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[244]</a></span> +clash of steel on steel; she tried to look out into the +fleeing darkness; she tried to imagine that the train +was carrying her away from the pursuing enemy—from +her own weak self.</p> + +<p>Her father came puffing and lip-pursing and jolly, +to take her to dinner. Mr. Boltwood had no tearing +meditations; he had a healthy interest in soup. But +he glanced at her, across the bright, sleek dining-table; +he seemed to study her; and suddenly Claire saw that +he was a very wise man. His look hinted, "You're +worried, my dear," but his voice ventured nothing +beyond comfortable drawling stories to which she had +only, from the depth of her gloomy brooding, to nod +mechanically.</p> + +<p>She got a great deal of satisfaction and +horror out of watching two traveling-men after +dinner. Milt had praised the race, and one of +the two traveling-men, a slender, clear-faced +youngster, was rather like Milt, despite plastered hair, +a watch-chain slung diagonally across his waistcoat, +maroon silk socks, and shoes of pearl buttons, gray +tops, and patent-leather bottoms. The other man was +a butter-ball. Both of them had harshly pompous +voices—the proudly unlettered voices of the smoking +compartment. The slender man was roaring:</p> + +<p>"Yes, sir, he's got a great proposition there—believe +me, he's got a great proposition—he's got one +great little factory there, take it from me. He can<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[245]</a></span> +turn out toothpicks to compete with Michigan. He's +simply piling up the shekels—why say, he's got a house +with eighteen rooms—every room done different."</p> + +<p>Claire wondered whether Milt, when the sting and +faith of romance were blunted, would engage in Great +Propositions, and fight for the recognition of his—toothpicks. +Would his creations be favorites in the +best lunch rooms? Would he pile up shekels?</p> + +<p>Then her fretting was lost in the excitement of approaching +Seattle and their host—Claire's cousin, +Eugene Gilson, an outrageously prosperous owner of +shingle-mills. He came from an old Brooklyn Heights +family. He had married Eva Gontz of Englewood. +He liked music and wrote jokey little letters and +knew the addresses of all the best New York shops. +He was of Her Own People, and she was near now to +the security of his friendship, the long journey done.</p> + +<p>Lights thicker and thicker—a factory illuminated +by arc-lamps,—the baggage—the porter—the eager +trail of people in the aisle—climbing down to the platform—red +caps—passing the puffing engine which had +brought them in—the procession to the gate—faces +behind a grill—Eugene Gilson and Eva waving—kisses, +cries of "How was the trip?" and "Oh! Had +won-derful drive!"—the huge station, and curious +waiting passengers, Jap coolies in a gang, lumbermen +in corks—the Gilsons' quiet car, and baggage stowed +away by the chauffeur instead of by their own tired<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[246]</a></span> +hands—streets strangely silent after the tumult of the +train—Seattle and the sunset coast at last attained.</p> + +<p>Claire had forgotten how many charming, most +desirable things there were in the world. The Gilsons +drove up Queen Anne Hill to a bay-fronting house +on a breezy knob—a Georgian house of holly hedge, +French windows, a terrace that suggested tea, and a +great hall of mahogany and white enamel with the hint +of roses somewhere, and a fire kindled in the paneled +drawing-room to be seen beyond the hall. Warmth +and softness and the Gilsons' confident affection +wrapped her around; and in contented weariness she +mounted to a bedroom of Bakst sketches, a four-poster, +and a bedside table with a black and orange +electric lamp and a collection of Arthur Symons' essays.</p> + +<p>She sank by the bed, pitifully rubbed her cheek +against the silk comforter that was primly awaiting her +commands at the foot of the bed, and cried, "Oh, +four-posters <i>are</i> necessary! I can't give them up! +I won't! They—— No one has a right to ask me." +She mentally stamped her foot. "I simply won't live +in a shack and take in washing. It isn't worth it."</p> + +<p>A bath, faintly scented, in a built-in tub in her own +marble bathroom. A preposterously and delightfully +enormous Turkish towel. One of Eva Gilson's foamy +negligées. Slow exquisite dressing—not the scratchy +hopping over ingrown dirt, among ingrown smells, of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[247]</a></span> +a filthy small-hotel bedroom, but luxurious wandering +over rugs velvety to her bare feet. A languid inspection +of the frivolous colors and curves in the drawings +by Bakst and George Plank and Helen Dryden. A +glance at the richness of the toilet-table, at the velvet +curtains that shut out the common world.</p> + +<p>Expanding to the comfort as an orchid to cloying +tropic airs, she drew on her sheerest chemise, her most +frivolous silk stockings. In a dreaming enervated joy +she saw how smooth were her arms and legs; she +sleepily resented the redness of her wrists and the callouses +of the texture of corduroy that scored her palms +from holding the steering wheel.</p> + +<p>Yes, she was glad that she had made the experiment—but +gladder that she was safely in from the +long dust-whitened way, back in her own world of +beauty; and she couldn't imagine ever trying it again. +To think of clumping out into that world of deliberate +and brawling crudeness——</p> + +<p>Of one Milt Daggett she didn't think at all.</p> + +<p>Gorgeously sleepy—and gorgeously certain that by +and by she would go, not to a stingy hotel bed, with +hound-dog ribs to cut into her tired back, but to a +feathery softness of slumber—she wavered down to +the drawing-room, and on the davenport, by the fire, +with Victoria chocolates by her elbow, and pillows +behind her shoulders, she gossiped of her adventure, +and asked for news of friends and kin back East.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[248]</a></span>Eugene and Eva Gilson asked with pyrotechnic merriness +about the "funny people she must have met +along the road." With a subdued, hidden unhappiness, +Claire found that she could not mention Milt—that +she was afraid her father would mention Milt—to +these people who took it for granted that all persons +who did not live in large houses and play good games +of bridge were either "queer" or "common"; who +believed that their West was desirable in proportion +as it became like the East; and that they, though +Westerners, were as superior to workmen with hard +hands as was Brooklyn Heights itself.</p> + +<p>Claire tried to wriggle out from under the thought +of Milt while, with the Gilsons as the perfect audience, +she improvised on the theme of wandering. With +certain unintended exaggerations, and certain not +quite accurate groupings of events, she described the +farmers and cowpunchers, the incredible hotels and +garages. Indeed they had become incredible to her +own self. Obviously this silken girl couldn't possibly +take seriously a Dlorus Kloh—or a young garage man +who said "ain't."</p> + +<p>Eva Gilson had been in Brooklyn within the month, +and in a passion of remembrance of home, Claire cried, +"Oh, do tell me about everybody."</p> + +<p>"I had such a good time with Amy Dorrance," said +Mrs. Gilson. "Of course Amy is a little dull, but she's +such an awfully good sort and—— We did have the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[249]</a></span> +jolliest party one afternoon. We went to lunch at +the Ritz, and a matinée, and we saw such an interesting +man—Gene is frightfully jealous when I rave +about him—I'm sure he was a violinist—simply an +exquisite thing he was—I wanted to kiss him. Gene +will now say, 'Why didn't you?'"</p> + +<p>And Gene said, "Well, why <i>didn't</i> you?" and +Claire laughed, and her toes felt warm and pink and +good, and she was perfectly happy, and she murmured, +"It would be good to hear a decent violinist again. +Oh! What had George Worlicht been doing, when +you were home?"</p> + +<p>"Don't you think Georgie is wonderful?" fluttered +Mrs. Gilson. "He makes me rue my thirty-six +sad years. I think I'll adopt him. You know, he almost +won the tennis cup at Long Branch."</p> + +<p>Georgie had a little mustache and an income, just +enough income to support the little mustache, and he +sang inoffensively, and was always winning tennis cups—almost—and +he always said, at least once at every +party, "The basis of <i>savoir faire</i> is knowing how to +be rude to the right people." Fire-enamored and gliding +into a perfumed haze of exquisite drowsiness, +Claire saw Georgie as heroic and wise. But the firelight +got into her eyes, and her lids wouldn't stay open, +and in her ears was a soft humming as of a million +bees in a distant meadow golden-spangled—and Gene +was helping her upstairs; sleepiness submerged her like<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[250]</a></span> +bathing in sweet waters; she fumbled at buttons and +hooks and stays, let things lie where they fell—and +of all that luxury nothing was more pleasant than the +knowledge that she did not have to take precautions +against the rats, mice, cockroaches, and all their obscene +little brothers which—on some far-off fantastic +voyaging when she had been young and foolish—she +seemed to remember having found in her own room. +Then she was sinking into a bed like a tide of rainbow-colored +foam, sinking deep, deep, deep——</p> + +<p>And it was morning, and she perceived that the +purpose of morning light was to pick out surfaces of +mahogany and orange velvet and glass, and that only +an idiot would ever leave this place and go about +begging dirty garage men to fill her car with stinking +gasoline and oil.</p> + +<p>The children were at breakfast—children surely not +of the same species as the smeary-cheeked brats she +had seen tumbling by roadsides along the way—sturdy +Mason, with his cap of curls, and Virginia, +with bobbed ash-blond hair prim about her delicate +face. They curtsied, and in voices that actually had +intonations they besought her, "Oh, Cousin Claire, +would you pleasssssse tell us about drive-to-the-coast?"</p> + +<p>After breakfast, she went out on the terrace for the +View.</p> + +<p>In Seattle, even millionaires, and the I. W. W., and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[251]</a></span> +men with red garters on their exposed shirt-sleeves +who want to give you real estate, all talk about the +View. The View is to Seattle what the car-service, +the auditorium, the flivver-factory, or the price of coal +is to other cities. At parties in Seattle, you discuss the +question of whether the View of Lake Union or the +View of the Olympics is the better, and polite office-managers +say to their stenographers as they enter, +"How's your View this morning?" All real-estate +deeds include a patent on the View, and every native +son has it as his soundest belief that no one in Tacoma +gets a View of Mount Rainier.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Gilson informed Claire that they had the finest +View in Seattle.</p> + +<p>Below Claire was the harbor, with docks thrust far +out into the water, and steamers alive with smoke. +Mrs. Gilson said they were Blue Funnel Liners, loading +for Vladivostok and Japan. The names, just the +names, shot into Claire's heart a wistful unexpressed +desire that was somehow vaguely connected with a +Milt Daggett who, back in the Middlewestern mud and +rain, had longed for purple mountains and cherry blossoms +and the sea. But she cast out the wish, and lifted +her eyes to mountains across the sound—not purple +mountains, but sheer silver streaked with black, like +frozen surf on a desolate northern shore—the +Olympics, two-score miles away.</p> + +<p>Up there, one could camp, with a boy in a deteriorated<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[252]</a></span> +sweater singing as he watched the coffee——</p> + +<p>Hastily she looked to the left, across the city, with +its bright new skyscrapers, its shining cornices and +masses of ranked windows, and the exclamation-point +of the "tallest building outside of New York"—far +livelier than her own rusty Brooklyn. Beyond the +city was a dun cloud, but as she stared, far up in the +cloud something crept out of the vapor, and hung there +like a dull full moon, aloof, majestic, overwhelming, +and she realized that she was beholding the peak of +Mount Rainier, with the city at its foot like white +quartz pebbles at the base of a tower.</p> + +<p>A landing-stage for angels, she reflected.</p> + +<p>It did seem larger than dressing-tables and velvet +hangings and scented baths.</p> + +<p>But she dragged herself from the enticing path +of that thought, and sighed wretchedly, "Oh, yes, he +would appreciate Rainier, but how—how would he +manage a grape-fruit? I mustn't be a fool! I +mustn't!" She saw that Mrs. Gilson was peeping at +her, and she made herself say adequate things about +the View before she fled inside—fled from her sputtering +inquiring self.</p> + +<p>In the afternoon they drove to Capitol Hill; they +dropped in at various pretty houses and met the sort +of people Claire knew back home. Between people +they had Views; and the sensible Miss Boltwood, +making a philosophic discovery, announced to herself,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[253]</a></span> +"After all, I've seen just as much from this limousine +as I would from a bone-breaking Teal bug. Silly to +make yourself miserable to see things. Oh yes, I will +go wandering some more, but not like a hobo. +But—— What can I say to him? Good heavens, +he may be here any time now, with our car. Oh, why—why—why +was I insane on that station platform?"</p> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[254]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXV<br /> +THE ABYSSINIAN PRINCE</h2> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">Snoqualmie Pass</span> lies among mountains +prickly with rocks and burnt stumps, but the +road is velvet, with broad saucer curves; and to Milt +it was pure beauty, it was release from life, to soar +up coaxing inclines and slip down easy grades in the +powerful car. "No more Teals for me," he cried, +in the ecstasy of handling an engine that slowed to a +demure whisper, then, at a touch of the accelerator, +floated up a rise, effortless, joyous, humming the booming +song of the joy in speed. He suddenly hated the +bucking tediousness of the Teal. The Gomez-Dep +symbolized his own new life.</p> + +<p>So he came to Lake Washington, and just across it +was the city of his long dreams, the city of the Pacific—and +of Claire. There was no ferry in sight, and he +rounded the lake, struck a brick pavement, rolled +through rough woods, suburban villas, and petty +business streets, to a region of factories and mills, with +the funnels of ships beyond.</p> + +<p>And every minute he drove more slowly and became +more uneasy.</p> + +<p>The pavement—the miles of it; the ruthless lumbermills, +with their thousands of workmen quite like<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[255]</a></span> +himself; the agitation of realizing that every three +minutes he was passing a settlement larger than +Schoenstrom; the strangeness of ships and all the +cynical ways of the sea—the whole scene depressed +him as he perceived how little of the world he knew, +and how big and contemptuous of Milt Daggetts that +world must be.</p> + +<p>"Huh!" he growled. "Quite some folks living +here. Don't suppose they spend such a whale of a lot +of time thinking about Milt Daggett and Bill McGolwey +and Prof Jones. I guess most of these people +wouldn't think Heinie Rauskukle's store was so gosh-awful +big. I wasn't scared of Minneapolis—much—but +there they didn't ring in mountains and an +ocean on you. And I didn't have to go up on the +hill and meet folks like Claire's relations, and figure +out whether you shake hands catch-as-catch-can or +Corinthian. Look at that sawmill chimney—isn't it +nice of 'em to put the fly-screen over it so the flies +won't get down into the flames. No, they haven't got +much more than a million feet of lumber in that one +pile. And here's a bum little furniture store—it +wouldn't cost more 'n about ten times all I've got to +buy one of those Morris chairs. Oh Gooooooosh, +won't these houses ever stop? Say, that must be a +jitney. The driver snickered at me. Will the whole +town be onto me? Milt, you're a kind young fellow, +and you know what's the matter with Heinie's differential,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[256]</a></span> +but they don't need you here. Quite a few +folks to carry on the business. Gosh, look at that +building ahead—nine stories!"</p> + +<p>He had planned to stop at a hotel, to wash up, and +to gallop to Claire. But—well—wouldn't it maybe +be better to leave the car at a public garage, so the +Boltwoods could get it when they wanted to? He'd +better "just kind of look around before he tackled the +watch-dog."</p> + +<p>It was the public garage which finally crushed him. +It was a garage of enameled brick and colored tiles, +with a plate-glass-enclosed office in which worked +young men clad as the angels. One of them wore a +carnation, Milt noted.</p> + +<p>"Huh! I'll write back and tell Ben Sittka that +hereafter he's to wear his best-Sunday-go-to-meeting +clothes and a milkweed blossom when he comes down +to work at the Red Trail Garage!"</p> + +<p>Milt drove up the brick incline into a room +thousands of miles long, with millions of new and +recently polished cars standing in lines as straight as a +running-board. He begged of a high-nosed colored +functionary—not in khaki overalls but in maroon +livery—"Where'll I put this boat?"</p> + +<p>The Abyssinian prince gave him a check, and in a +tone of extreme lack of personal interest snapped, +"Take it down the aisle to the elevator."</p> + +<p>Milt had followed the natural lines of traffic into<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[257]</a></span> +the city; he had spoken to no one; the prince's snort +was his welcome to Seattle.</p> + +<p>Meekly he drove past the cars so ebon and silvery, +so smug and strong, that they would have regarded a +Teal bug as an insult. Another attendant waved him +into the elevator, and Milt tried not to look surprised +when the car started, not forward, but upward, as +though it had turned into an aeroplane.</p> + +<p>When these adventures were over, when he had had +a shave and a shine, and washed his hands, and looked +into a department-store window that contained ten +billion yards of silk draped against polished satinwood, +when he had felt unhappy over a movie theater large +enough to contain ten times the population of Schoenstrom, +and been cursed by a policeman for jaywalking, +and had passed a hotel entirely full of diplomats and +marble and caviare—then he could no longer put off +telephoning to Claire, and humbly, in a booth meant +for an umbrella-stand, he got the Eugene Gilson house, +and to a female who said "Yes?" in a tone which +made it mean "No!" he ventured, "May I speak to +Miss Boltwood?"</p> + +<p>Miss Boltwood, it seemed, was out.</p> + +<p>He was not sorry. He was relieved. He ducked out +of the telephone-booth with a sensation of escape.</p> + +<p>Milt was in love with Claire; she was to him the +purpose of life; he thought of her deeply and tenderly +and longingly. All the way into Seattle he had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[258]</a></span> +brooded about her; remembered her every word and +gesture; recalled the curve of her chin, and the fresh +feeling of her hands. But Claire had suddenly become +too big. In her were all these stores, these office +buildings for clever lawyers and surgeons, these contemptuous +trolley cars, these careless people in beautiful +clothes. They were too much for him. Desperately +he was pushing them back—back—fighting +for breath. And she belonged with them.</p> + +<p>He mailed the check for the stored car to her, +with a note—written standing before a hacked wall-desk +in a branch post-office—which said only, "Here's +check for the boat. Did not know whether you would +have room for it at house. Tried to get you on phone, +phone again just as soon as rent room etc. Hope having +happy time, M.D."</p> + +<p>He went out to the university. On the trolley he +relaxed. But he did not exultantly feel that he had +won to the Pacific; he could not regard Seattle now +as a magic city, the Bagdad of modern caravans, with +Alaska and the Orient on one hand, the forests to the +north, and eastward the spacious Inland Empire of +the wheat. He saw it as a place where you had to +work hard just to live; where busy policemen despised +you because you didn't know which trolley to take; +where it was incredibly hard to remember even the +names of the unceasing streets; where the conductors +said "Step lively!" and there was no room to whistle,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[259]</a></span> +no time to swap stories with a Bill McGolwey at an +Old Home lunch-counter.</p> + +<p>He found the university; he talked with the authorities +about entering the engineering school; the Y. M. +C. A. gave him a list of rooms; and, because it was +cheap, he chose a cubbyhole in a flat over a candy +store—a low room, which would probably keep out +the rain, but had no other virtues. It had one bed, one +table, one dissipated bureau, two straight bare chairs, +and one venerable lithograph depicting a girl with +ringlets shaking her irritating forefinger at a high-church +kitten.</p> + +<p>The landlady consented to his importing an oil-stove +for cooking his meals. He bought the stove, with a +box of oatmeal, a jar of bacon, and half a dozen eggs. +He bought a plane and solid geometry, and an algebra. +At dinner time he laid the algebra beside his plate +of anemic bacon and leaking eggs. The eggs grew +cold. He did not stir. He was reviewing his high-school +algebra. He went down the pages, word by +word, steadily, quickly, absolutely concentrated—as +concentrated as he would recently have been in a new +problem of disordered transmission. Not once did +he stop to consider how glorious it would be to marry +Claire—or how terrifying it would be to marry Miss +Boltwood.</p> + +<p>Three hours went by before he started up, bewildered, +rubbed his eyes, picked at the chill bacon<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[260]</a></span> +and altogether disgusting eggs, and rambled out into +the street.</p> + +<p>Again he risked the scorn of conductors and jitney +drivers. He found Queen Anne Hill, found the residence +of Mr. Eugene Gilson. He sneaked about it, +slipped into the gate, prowled toward the house. +Flabby from the intensity of study, he longed for the +stimulus of Claire's smile. But as he stared up at the +great squares of the clear windows, at the flare of +white columns in the porch-lights, that smile seemed +unreachable. He felt like a rustic at court. From the +shelter of the prickly holly hedge he watched the +house. It was "some kind of a party?—or what +would folks like these call a party?" Limousines +were arriving; he had a glimpse of silken ankles, +frothy underskirts; heard easy laughter; saw people +moving through a big blue and silver room; caught +a drifting tremor of music.</p> + +<p>At last he saw Claire. She was dancing with a +young man as decorative as "that confounded Saxton +fellow" he had met at Flathead Lake, but younger +than Saxton, a laughing young man, with curly black +hair. For the first time in his life Milt wanted to kill. +He muttered, "Damn—damn—DAMN!" as he saw +the young man carelessly embracing Claire.</p> + +<p>His fingers tingling, his whole body yearning till +every cell seemed a beating hammer, Milt longed just +once to slip his hand about Claire's waist like that.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[261]</a></span> +He could feel the satin of her bodice and its warmth.</p> + +<p>Then it seemed to him, as Claire again passed the +window, that he did not know her at all. He had +once talked to a girl who resembled her, but that was +long ago. He could understand a Gomez-Dep and +appreciate a brisk sports-suit, but this girl was of a +world unintelligible to him. Her hair, in its dips and +convolutions, was altogether a puzzle. "How did +she ever fix it like that?" Her low evening dress—"what +was it made of—some white stuff, but was it +silk or muslin or what?" Her shoulders were startling +in their bare powdery smoothness—"how dare that +young pup dance with her?" And her face, that had +seemed so jolly and friendly, floated past the window +as pale and illusive as a wisp of fog. His longing for +her passed into clumsy awe. He remembered, without +resentment, that once on a hilltop in Dakota she had +coldly forbidden him to follow her.</p> + +<p>With all the pleasure of martyrdom—to make quite +sure that he should realize how complete a fool he had +been to intrude on Miss Boltwood—he studied the +other guests. He gave them, perhaps, a glory they did +not have. There were girls sleek as ivory. There +was a lean stooped man, very distinguished. There +was a bulky man in a dinner coat, with a semi-circle +of mustache, and eyes that even at a distance seemed +to give impatient orders. He would be a big banker, +or a lumberman.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[262]</a></span>It was the easy friendliness of all of them that most +made Milt feel like an outsider. If a servant had +come out and ordered him away, he would have gone +meekly ... he fancied.</p> + +<p>He straggled off, too solidly unhappy to think how +unhappy he was. In his clammy room he picked up +the algebra. For a quarter-hour he could not gather +enough vigor to open it. In his lassitude, his elbows +felt feeble, his fingers were ready to drop off. He +slowly scratched the book open——</p> + +<p>At one o'clock he was reading algebra, his face +still and grim. But already it seemed less heartily +brick-red.</p> + +<p>He listlessly telephoned to Claire, in the morning.</p> + +<p>"Hello? Oh! Miss Boltwood? This is Milt Daggett."</p> + +<p>"Oh! Oh, how are you?"</p> + +<p>"Why, why I'm—I've got settled. I can get into +the engineering school all right."</p> + +<p>"I'm glad."</p> + +<p>"Uh, enjoying Seattle?"</p> + +<p>"Oh! Oh yes. The mountains—— Do you like +it?"</p> + +<p>"Oh! Oh yes. Sea and all—— Great town."</p> + +<p>"Uh, w-when are we going to see you? Daddy +had to go East, left you his regards. W-when——?"</p> + +<p>"Why—why I suppose you're awful—awfully busy, +meeting people and all——"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[263]</a></span>"Yes, I am, rather, but——" Her hedging uncomfortable +tone changed to a cry of distress. +"Milt! I must see you. Come up at four this afternoon."</p> + +<p>"Yes!"</p> + +<p>He rushed to a small, hot tailor-shop. He panted +"Press m' suit while I wait?" They gave him a +pair of temporary trousers, an undesirable pair of +trousers belonging to a short fat man with no taste +in fabrics, and with these flapping about his lean legs, +he sat behind a calico curtain, reading <i>The War Cry</i> +and looking at a "fashion-plate" depicting nine gentlemen +yachtsmen each nine feet tall, while the Jugoslav +in charge unfeelingly sprinkled and ironed and patted +his suit.</p> + +<p>He spent ten minutes in blacking his shoes, in his +room—and twenty minutes in getting the blacking off +his fingers.</p> + +<p>He was walking through the gate in the Gilson hedge +at one minute to four.</p> + +<p>But he had reached Queen Anne Hill at three. For +an hour he had walked the crest road, staring at the +steamers below, alternately gripping his hands with +desire of Claire, and timorously finally deciding that +he wouldn't go to her house—wouldn't ever see her +again.</p> + +<p>He came into the hall tremblingly expecting some +great thing, some rending scene, and she met him with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[264]</a></span> +a cool, "Oh, this is nice. Eva had some little white +cakes made for us." He felt like a man who has asked +for a drink of cold charged water and found it warm +and flat.</p> + +<p>"How—— Dandy house," he muttered, limply +shaking her limp hand.</p> + +<p>"Yes, isn't it a darling. They do themselves awfully +well here. I'm afraid your bluff, plain, democratic +Westerners are a fraud. I hear a lot more about +'society' here than I ever did in the East. The +sets seem frightfully complicated." She was drifting +into the drawing-room, to a tapestry stool, and Milt +was awkwardly stalking a large wing chair, while she +fidgeted:</p> + +<p>"Everybody tells me about how one poor dear +soul, a charming lady who used to take in washing +or salt gold-mines or something, and she came here +a little while ago with billions and billions of +dollars, and tried to buy her way in by shopping +for all the charities in town, and apparently she's +just as out of it here as she would be in London. +You and I aren't exclusive like that, are +we!"</p> + +<p>Somehow——</p> + +<p>Her "you and I" was too kindly, as though she was +trying to put him at ease, as though she knew he +couldn't possibly be at ease. With a horribly elaborate +politeness, with a smile that felt hot on his twitching<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[265]</a></span> +cheeks, he murmured, "Oh no. No, we—— No, I +guess——"</p> + +<p>If he knew what it was he guessed, he couldn't get +it out. While he was trying to find out what had become +of all the things there were to say in the world, +a maid came in with an astonishing object—a small, +red, shelved table on wheels, laden with silver vessels, +and cake, and sandwiches that were amazingly small +and thin.</p> + +<p>The maid was so starched that she creaked. She +glanced at Milt—— Claire didn't make him so +nervous that he thought of his clothes, but the maid +did. He was certain that she knew that he had blacked +his own shoes, knew how old were his clothes. He +was urging himself, "Must get new suit tomorrow—ready-made—mustn't +forget, now—be sure—get suit +tomorrow." He wanted to apologize to the maid for +existing.... He wouldn't dare to fall in love with +the maid.... And he'd kill the man who said he +could be fool enough to fall in love with Miss Boltwood.</p> + +<p>He sipped his tea, and dropped sandwich crumbs, +and ached, and panted, and peeped at the crushing +quantities of pictures and sconces and tables and +chairs in the room, and wondered what they did with +all of them, while Claire chattered:</p> + +<p>"Yes, we weren't exclusive out on the road. Didn't +we meet funny people though! Oh, somehow that<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[266]</a></span> +'funny people' sounds familiar. But—— What fun +that morning was at—Pellago, was it? Heavens, I'm +forgetting those beastly little towns already—that +place where we hazed the poor landlady who overcharged +me."</p> + +<p>"Yes." He was thinking of how much Claire +would forget, now. "Yes. We certainly fixed her, +all right. Uh—did you get the storage check for your +car?"</p> + +<p>"Oh yes, thank you. So nice of you to bother +with it."</p> + +<p>"Oh, nothing at all, nothing—— Nothing at all. +Uh—— Do you like Seattle?"</p> + +<p>"Oh yes. Such views—the mountains—— Do you +like it?"</p> + +<p>"Oh yes. Always wanted to see the sea."</p> + +<p>"Yes, and—— Such a well-built town."</p> + +<p>"Yes, and—— They must do a lot of business +here."</p> + +<p>"Yes, they—— Oh yes, I do like Seat——"</p> + +<p>He had darted from his chair, brushed by the tea-wagon, +ignoring its rattle and the perilous tipping of +cups. He put his hand on her shoulder, snorted, +"Look here. We're both sparring for time. Stop +it. It's—it's all right, Claire. I want you to like +me, but I'm not—I'm not like that woman you were +telling about that's trying to butt in. I know, Lord I +know so well what you're thinking! You're thinking<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[267]</a></span> +I'm not up to the people you've been seeing last couple +of days—not up to 'em yet, anyway. Well—— We'll +be good friends."</p> + +<p>Fearless, now, his awe gone in tenderness, he lifted +her chin, looked straight into her eyes, smiled. But +his courage was slipping. He wanted to run and +hide.</p> + +<p>He turned abruptly, grumbling, "Well, better get +back to work now, I guess."</p> + +<p>Her cry was hungry: "Oh, please don't go." She +was beside him, shyly picking at his sleeve. "I know +what you mean. I like you for being so understanding. +But—— I do like you. You were the perfect +companion. Let's—— Oh, let's have a walk—and +try to laugh again."</p> + +<p>He definitely did not want to stay. At this moment +he did not love her. He regarded her as an estimable +young woman who, for a person so idiotically reared, +had really shown a good deal of pluck out on the road—where +he wanted to be. He stood in the hall disliking +his old cap while she ran up to put on a top +coat.</p> + +<p>Mute, casual, they tramped out of the house together, +and down the hill to a region of shabby old +brown houses like blisters on the hillside. They had +little to say, and that little was a polite reminiscence +of incidents in which neither was interested.</p> + +<p>When they came back to the Gilson hedge, he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[268]</a></span> +stopped at the gate, with terrific respectableness removed +his cap.</p> + +<p>"Good night," she said cheerily. "Call me up soon +again."</p> + +<p>He did not answer "Good night." He said "Good-by"; +and he meant it to be his last farewell. He +caught her hand, hastily dropped it, fled down the hill.</p> + +<p>He was, he told himself, going to leave Seattle that +evening.</p> + +<p>That, doubtless, is the reason why he ran to a +trolley, to get to a department-store before it closed; +and why, precipitating himself upon a startled clerk, +he purchased a new suit of chaste blue serge, a new +pair of tan boots (curiously like some he had seen on +the university campus that morning) and a new hat +so gray and conservative and felty that it might have +been worn by Woodrow Wilson.</p> + +<p>He spent the evening in reading algebra and geometry, +and in telling himself that he was beautifully not +thinking about Claire.</p> + +<p>In the midst of it, he caught himself at it, and +laughed.</p> + +<p>"What you're doing, my friend, is pretending you +don't like Claire, so that you can hide from your fool +self the fact that you're going to sneak back to see +her the first chance you get—first time the watch-dog +is out. Seriously now, son, Claire is impossible for +you. No can do. Now that you've been chump<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[269]</a></span> +enough to leave home—— Oh Lord, I wish I hadn't +promised to take this room for all winter. Wish I +hadn't matriculated at the U. But I'm here now, and +I'll stick it out. I'll stay here one year anyway, and +go back home. Oh! And to—— By Golly! She +liked me!"</p> + +<p>He was thinking of the wild-rose teacher to whom +he had given a lift back in Dakota. He was remembering +her daintiness, her admiration.</p> + +<p>"Now there's somebody who'd make me keep climbing, +but wouldn't think I was a poor hick. If I were +to drive back next spring, I could find her——"</p> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[270]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXVI<br /> +A CLASS IN ENGINEERING AND OMELETS</h2> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">The</span> one thing of which Milt Daggett was certain +was that now he had managed to crawl into the +engineering school, he must get his degree in mechanical +engineering. He was older than most of his classmates. +He must hurry. He must do four years' +work in two.</p> + +<p>There has never been a Freshman, not the most goggle-eyed +and earnest of them, who has seen less of +classmates, thought less about "outside activities," +more grimly centered the universe about his work.</p> + +<p>Milt had sold his garage, by mail, to Ben Sittka +and Heinie Rauskukle. He had enough money to get +through two years, with economy. His life was as +simple and dull as it had been in Schoenstrom. He +studied while he cooked his scrappy meals; he pinned +mathematical formulæ and mechanical diagrams on +the wall, and pored over them while he was dressing—or +while he was trying to break in the new shoes, +which were beautiful, squeaky, and confoundedly +tight.</p> + +<p>He was taking French and English and "composition-writing" +in addition to engineering, and he made +out a schedule of life as humorlessly as a girl grind<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[271]</a></span> +who intends to be a Latin teacher. When he was +not at work, or furiously running and yanking chest-weights +in the gymnasium, he was attending concerts, +lectures.</p> + +<p>Studying the life about him, he had discovered that +the best way to save time was to avoid the lazy friendships +of college; the pipe-smoking, yawning, comfortable, +rather heavy, altogether pleasant wondering +about "what'll we do next?" which occupies at least +four hours a day for the average man in college. He +would have liked it, as he had liked long talks about +nothing with Bill McGolwey at the Old Home Lunch. +But he couldn't afford it. He had to be ready to——</p> + +<p>That was the point at which his reflections always +came up with a jolt. He was quite clear about the +method of getting ready, but he hadn't the slightest +idea of what he was getting ready for. The moment +he had redecided to marry Claire, he saw that his only +possible future would be celibate machinery-installing +in Alaska; and the moment he was content with the +prospect of an engineer's camp in Alaskan wilds, his +thoughts went crazily fluttering after Claire.</p> + +<p>Despite his aloofness, Milt was not unpopular in +his class. The engineers had few of them the interest +in dances, athletics, college journalism, which distinguished +the men in the academic course. They +were older, and more conscious of a living to earn. +And Milt's cheerful, "How's the boy?" his manner<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[272]</a></span> +of waving his hand—as though to a good customer +leaving the Red Trail Garage with the generator at +last tamed—indicated that he was a "good fellow."</p> + +<p>One group of collegians Milt did seek. It is true +that he had been genuine in scorning social climbers. +But it is also true that the men whom he sought to +know were the university smart set. Their satisfaction +in his allegiance would have been lessened, however, +had they known how little he cared for what +they thought of him, and with what cruel directness +he was using them as models for the one purpose of +pleasing Miss Claire Boltwood.</p> + +<p>The American state universities admit, in a pleased +way, that though Yale and Harvard and Princeton +may be snobbish, the state universities are the refuge +of a myth called "college democracy." But there is no +university near a considerable city into which the inheritors +of the wealth of that city do not carry all +the local social distinctions. Their family rank, their +place in the unwritten peerage, determines to which +fraternity they shall be elected, and the fraternity determines +with whom—men and girls—they shall be +intimate. The sons and daughters of Seattle and +Tacoma, the scions of old families running in an +unbroken line clear back to 1880, were amiable to poor +outsiders from the Yakima valley and the new claims +of Idaho, but they did not often invite them to their +homes on the two hills and the Boulevard.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[273]</a></span>Yet it was these plutocrats whom Milt followed; +they whose boots and table manners, cigarettes and +lack of interest in theology, he studied. He met them +in his English class. He remarked "Hello, Smith," +and "Mornin', Jones," as though he liked them but +didn't care a hang whether they liked him. And by +and by he drifted into their fraternity dwelling-house, +with a question about the next day's assignment, and +met their friends. He sat pipe-smoking, silent, cheerful, +and they seemed to accept him. Whenever one of +them felt that Milt was intruding, and asked impertinent +questions in the manner of a Pullman porter at a +Darktown ball, Milt had a peculiar level look which +had been known to generate courtesy even in the offspring +of a million dollars. They found that he knew +more about motor-cars than any of them, and as +motor-cars were among their greater gods, they +considered him wise. He was incomparably simple +and unpretentious; they found his presence comfortable.</p> + +<p>But there is a question as to what they would have +thought had they known that, lying awake in the +morning, Milt unsmilingly repeated:</p> + +<p>"Hair always straight down at the back. Never +rounded. Nix on clippers over the ears.</p> + +<p>"Matisse is a popular nut artist. Fashionable for +the swells to laugh at him, and the fellows on the +college papers to rave about him.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[274]</a></span>"Blinx and Severan the swellest—the smartest +haberdashery in the city.</p> + +<p>"The one way to get in Dutch is to mention labor +leaders.</p> + +<p>"Never say 'Pleased to meet you.' Just look about +halfway between bored and tol'able and say, 'How +do you do?'"</p> + +<hr class="shr" /> + +<p>All these first three weeks of his life in Seattle, he +had seen Claire only on his first call. Twice he had +telephoned to her. On one of these high occasions she +had invited him to accompany the family to the +theater—which meant to the movies—and he had +wretchedly refused; the other time she had said that +she might stay in Seattle all winter, and she might go +any day, and they "must be sure to have that good +long walk"; and he had said "oh yes," ten or twelve +unhappy times, and had felt very empty as he hung up +the receiver.</p> + +<p>Then she wrote to invite him to late Sunday breakfast +at the Gilsons'—they made a function of it, and +called it bruncheon. The hour was given as ten-thirty; +most people came at noon; but Milt arrived +at ten-thirty-one, and found only a sleepy butler in +sight.</p> + +<p>He waited in the drawing-room for five minutes, +feeling like a bill-collector. Into the room vaulted a +medium-sized, medium-looking, amiable man, Eugene<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[275]</a></span> +Gilson, babbling, "Oh, I say, so sorry to keep you +waiting, Mr. Daggett. Rotten shame, do come have +a bun or something, frightfully informal these +bruncheons, play auction?"</p> + +<p>"Zallright—no," said Milt.</p> + +<p>The host profusely led him to a dining-room where—in +English fashion, or something like English +fashion, or anyway a close approximation to the fictional +pictures of English fashion—kidneys and +sausages and omelets waited in dishes on the side-board. +Mr. Gilson poured coffee, and chanted:</p> + +<p>"Do try the kidneys. They're usually very fair. +Miss Boltwood tells me that you were very good to +her on the trip. Must have been jolly trip. You going +to be in town some time, oh yes, Claire said you were +in the university, engineering, wasn't it? have you ever +seen our lumbermills, do drop around some—— Try +the omelet before the beastly thing gets cold, do you +mind kicking that button, we'll have some more omelet +in—any time at the mill and I'll be glad to have +some one show you through, how did you find the +roads along the Red Trail?"</p> + +<p>"Why, pretty fair," said Milt.</p> + +<p>Into the room precipitated Mrs. Gilson, in a +smile, a super-sweater, and a sports skirt that would +have been soiled by any variety of sport more +violent than pinochle, and she was wailing as she +came:</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[276]</a></span>"We're disgraced, Gene, is this Mr. Daggett? how +do you do, so good of you to come, do try the kidneys, +they're usually quite decent, are the omelets warm, you +might ring for some more, Gene, for heaven's sake give +me some coffee, Miss Boltwood will be right down, +Mr. Daggett, she told us how fortunate they were that +they met you on the road, did you like the trip, how +were the roads?"</p> + +<p>"Why, they were pretty good," said Milt.</p> + +<p>Claire arrived, fresh and serene in white taffeta, +and she cried prettily, "I ought to have known that +you'd be prompt even if no one else in the world is, +so glad you came, have you tried the kidneys, and do +have an—oh, I see you have tried the omelets, how +goes the work at the university?"</p> + +<p>"Why, fine," said Milt.</p> + +<p>He ate stolidly, and looked pleased, and sneaked in +a glance at his new (and still tight and still squeaky) +tan boots to make sure that they were as well polished +as they had seemed at home.</p> + +<p>From nowhere appeared a bustling weighty woman, +purring, "Hello, hello, hello, is it possible that you're +all up—— Mr. Daggett. Yes, do lead me to the +kidneys."</p> + +<p>And a man with the gray hair of a grandfather +and the giggle of a cash-girl bounced in clamoring, +"Mornin'—expected to have bruncheon alone—do +we have some bridge? Oh, good morning, Mr. Daggett,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[277]</a></span> +how do you like Seattle? Oh, thanks so much, +yes, just two."</p> + +<p>Then Milt ceased to keep track of the conversation, +which bubbled over the omelets, and stewed over the +kidneys, and foamed about the coffee, and clashed +above a hastily erected bridge table, and altogether +sounded curiously like four cars with four quite different +things the matter with them all being tried out +at once in a small garage. People flocked in, and +nodded as though they knew one another too well to +worry about it. They bowed to him charmingly, and +instantly forgot him for the kidneys and sausages. +He sat looking respectable and feeling lonely, by a cup +of coffee, till Claire—dropping the highly unreal smile +with which she had been listening to the elderly beau's +account of a fishing-trip he hadn't quite got around to +taking—slipped into a chair beside him and begged, +"Are they looking out for you, Milt?"</p> + +<p>"Oh yes, thank you."</p> + +<p>"You haven't been to see me."</p> + +<p>"Oh no, but—— Working so darn hard."</p> + +<p>"What a strikingly original reason! But have you +really?"</p> + +<p>"Honest."</p> + +<p>Suddenly he wanted—eternal man, forever playing +confidential small boy to the beloved—to tell her about +his classes and acquaintances; to get pity for his bare +room and his home-cooking. But round them blared<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[278]</a></span> +the brazen interest in kidneys, and as Claire glanced +up with much brightness at another arrival, Milt lost +momentum, and found that there was absolutely +nothing in the world he could say to her.</p> + +<p>He made a grateful farewell to the omelets and +kidneys, and escaped.</p> + +<p>He walked many miles that day, trying to remember +how Claire looked.</p> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[279]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXVII<br /> +THE VICIOUSNESS OF NICE THINGS</h2> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">"What</span> did you think of my nice Daggett +boy?" Claire demanded of Eva Gilson, the +moment bruncheon was over.</p> + +<p>"Which one was—— Oh, the boy you met on the +road? Why, really, I didn't notice him particularly. +I'd rather fancied from the way you referred to him +that he was awfully jolly and forceful, but rather +crude. But I didn't notice him at all. He seemed +perfectly well-bred, but slightly heavy."</p> + +<p>"No, he isn't that—— He—— Why did you lead +spades?" reflected Claire.</p> + +<p>They were in the drawing-room, resting after the +tact and tumult of the bruncheon. Claire had been +here long enough now for the Gilsons to forget her +comfortably, and be affectionate and quarrelsome and +natural, and to admit by their worrying that even in +their exalted social position there were things to fuss +about.</p> + +<p>"I do think we ought to have invited Belle Torrens," +fretted Mrs. Gilson. "We've simply got to +have her here soon."</p> + +<p>Mr. Gilson speculated intensely, "But she's the +dullest soul on earth, and her husband spends all his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[280]</a></span> +spare time in trying to think up ways of doing me dirt +in business. Oh, by the way, did you get the water +tap in the blue room fixed? It's dripping all the +time."</p> + +<p>"No, I forgot it."</p> + +<p>"Well, I <i>do</i> wish you'd have it attended to. It +simply drips all the time."</p> + +<p>"I know. I intended to 'phone the plumber—— Can't +you 'phone him tomorrow, from the office?"</p> + +<p>"No, I haven't time to bother with it. But I do +wish you would. It keeps on dripping——"</p> + +<p>"I know, it doesn't seem to stop. Well, you remind +me of it in the morning."</p> + +<p>"I'm afraid I'll forget. You better make a note +of it. If it keeps on dripping that way, it's likely to +injure something. And I do wish you'd tell the Jap +not to put so much parsley in the omelet. And I say, +how would an omelet be with a butter sauce over it?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, no, I don't think so. An omelet ought to be +nice and dry. Butter makes it so greasy—besides, +with the price of butter——"</p> + +<p>"But there's a richness to butter—— You'd better +make a note about the tap dripping in the blue room +right now, before you forget it. Oh! Why in +heaven's name did we have Johnny Martin here? He's +dull as ditchwater——"</p> + +<p>"I know, but—— It is nice to go out to his place +on the Point. Oh, Gene, I do wish you'd try and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[281]</a></span> +remember not to talk about your business so much. +You and Mr. Martin were talking about the price +of lumber for at least half an hour——"</p> + +<p>"Nothing of the kind. We scarcely mentioned it. +Oh! What car are you going to use this afternoon? +If we get out to the Barnetts', I thought we might use +the limousine—— Or no, you'll probably go out before +I do, I have to read over some specifications, and +I promised to give Will a lift, couldn't you take the +Loco, maybe you might drive yourself, no, I forgot, +the clutch is slipping a little, well, you might drive +out and send the car back for me—still, there wouldn't +hardly be time——"</p> + +<p>Listening to them as to a play, Claire suddenly desired +to scream, "Oh, for heaven's sake quit fussing! +I'm going up and drown myself in the blue-room tap! +What does it matter! Walk! Take a surface car! +Don't fuss so!"</p> + +<p>Her wrath came from her feeling of guilt. Yes, +Milt had been commonplace. Had she done this to +him? Had she turned his cheerful ignorances into a +careful stupor? And she felt stuffy and choking and +overpacked with food. She wanted to be out on the +road, clear-headed, forcing her way through, an independent +human being—with Milt not too far behind.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Gilson was droning, "I do think Mattie Vincent +is so nice."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[282]</a></span>"Rather dull I'd call her," yawned Mr. Gilson.</p> + +<p>Mattie was the seventh of their recent guests whom +he had called dull by now.</p> + +<p>"Not at all—oh, of course she doesn't dance on +tables and quote Maeterlinck, but she does have an +instinct for the niceties and the proprieties—her little +house is so sweet—everything just exactly right—it +may be only a single rose, but always chosen so carefully +to melt into the background; and such adorable +china—I simply die of envy every time I see her +Lowestoft plates. And such a quiet way of reproving +any bad taste—the time that crank university professor +was out there, and spoke of the radical labor movement, +and Mattie just smiled at him and said, 'If you +don't mind, let's not drag filthy lumberjacks into the +drawing-room—they'd hate it just as much as we +would, don't you think, perhaps?'"</p> + +<p>"Oh, <i>damn</i> nice china! Oh, let's hang all spinsters +who are brightly reproving," Claire was silently raging. +"And particularly and earnestly confound all +nicety and discretion of living."</p> + +<p>She tried to break the spell of the Gilsons' fussing. +She false-heartedly fawned upon Mr. Gilson, and inquired:</p> + +<p>"Is there anything very exciting going on at the +mills, Gene?"</p> + +<p>"Exciting?" asked Mr. Gilson incredulously. +"Why, how do you mean?"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[283]</a></span>"Don't you find business exciting? Why do you +do it then?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, wellllll—— Of course—— Oh, yes, exciting +in a way. Well—— Well, we've had a jolly interesting +time making staves for candy pails—promises +to be wonderfully profitable. We have a new way of +cutting them. But you wouldn't be interested in the +machinery."</p> + +<p>"Of course not. You don't bore Eva with your +horrid, headachy business-problems, do you?" Claire +cooed, with low cunning.</p> + +<p>"Indeed no. Don't think a chap ought to inflict +his business on his wife. The home should be a place +of peace."</p> + +<p>"Yes," said Claire.</p> + +<p>But she wasn't thinking "Yes." She was thinking, +"Milt, what worries me now isn't how I can risk +letting the 'nice people' meet you. It's how I can ever +waste you on the 'nice people.' Oh, I'm spoiled for +cut-glass-and-velvet afternoons. Eternal spiritual agony +over blue-room taps is too high a price even for +four-poster beds. I want to be driving! hiking! living!"</p> + +<p>That afternoon, after having agreed that Mr. +Johnny Martin was a bore, Mr. and Mrs. Gilson decided +to run out to the house of Mr. Johnny Martin. +They bore along the lifeless Claire.</p> + +<p>Mr. Martin was an unentertaining bachelor who<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[284]</a></span> +entertained. There were a dozen supercilious young +married people at his bayside cottage when the Gilsons +arrived. Among them were two eyebrow-arching +young matrons whom Claire had not met—Mrs. +Corey and Mrs. Betz.</p> + +<p>"We've all heard of you, Miss Boltwood," said +Mrs. Betz. "You come from the East, don't you?"</p> + +<p>"Yes," fluttered Claire, trying to be cordial.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Corey and Mrs. Betz looked at each other in a +motionless wink, and Mrs. Corey prodded:</p> + +<p>"From New York?"</p> + +<p>"No. Brooklyn." Claire tried not to make it too +short.</p> + +<p>"Oh." The tacit wink was repeated. Mrs. Corey +said brightly—much too brightly—"I was born in +New York. I wonder if you know the Dudenants?"</p> + +<p>Now Claire knew the Dudenants. She had danced +with that young ass Don Dudenant a dozen times. But +the devil did enter into her and possess her, and, to +Eva Gilson's horror, Claire said stupidly, "No-o, but +I think I've heard of them."</p> + +<p>The condemning wink was repeated.</p> + +<p>"I hear you've been doing such interesting things—motoring +and adventuring—you must have met some +terrible people along the way," fished Mrs. Betz.</p> + +<p>"Yes, everybody does seem to feel that way. But +I'm afraid I found them terribly nice," flared Claire.</p> + +<p>"I always say that common people can be most<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[285]</a></span> +agreeable," Mrs. Corey patronized. Before Claire +could kill her—there wasn't any homicidal weapon +in sight except a silver tea-strainer—Mrs. Corey had +pirouetted on, "Though I do think that we're much +too kind to workmen and all—the labor situation is +getting to be abominable here in the West, and upon +my word, to keep a maid nowadays, you have to treat +her as though she were a countess."</p> + +<p>"Why shouldn't maids be like countesses? They're +much more important," said Claire sweetly.</p> + +<p>It cannot be stated that Claire had spent any large +part of her time in reading Karl Marx, leading syndicalist +demonstrations, or hemming red internationalist +flags, but at this instant she was a complete revolutionist. +She could have executed Mrs. Corey and +pretty Mrs. Betz with zeal; she disliked the entire bourgeoisie; +she looked around for a Jap boy to call "comrade" +and she again thought about the possibilities of +the tea-strainer for use in assassination. She stolidly +wore through the combined and exclamatory explanations +of Mrs. Corey, Mrs. Betz, Mrs. Gilson, and Mr. +Johnny Martin about the inherent viciousness of all +maids, and when the storm was over, she said in a +manner of honey and syrup:</p> + +<p>"You were speaking of the Dudenants, weren't you, +Mrs. Corey? I do remember them now. Poor Don +Dudenant, isn't it a pity he's such a fool? His father +is really a very decent old bore."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[286]</a></span>"I," observed Mrs. Corey, in prim horror, "regard +the Dudenants as extremely delightful people. I fancy +we must be thinking of different families. I mean the +Manhattan Dudenants, not the Brooklyn family."</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes, I meant the Manhattan family, too—the +one that made its fortune selling shoddy woolens in the +Civil War," caressed Claire.</p> + +<p>Right there, her welcome by Mrs. Corey and Mrs. +Betz ceased; and without any of the unhappiness +which the thought would have caused her three months +before, Claire reflected, "How they hate me!"</p> + +<p>The Gilsons had a number of thoughts upon the +subject of tact to express to Claire on the way home. +But she, who had always smiled, who had been the +obedient guest, shrugged and snapped, "They're +idiots, those young women. They're impertinent +shopgirls in good frocks. I like your Seattle. It's a +glorious city. And I love so many of the fine, simple, +real people I've met here. I admire your progress. I +do know how miraculously you've changed it from a +mining camp. But for heaven's sake don't forget the +good common hardiness of the miners. Somehow, +London social distinctions seem ludicrous in American +cities that twenty years ago didn't have much but +board sidewalks and saloons. I don't care whether +it's Seattle or Minneapolis or Omaha or Denver, I +refuse to worry about the Duchess of Corey and the +Baroness Betz and all the other wonderful imitations<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[287]</a></span> +of gilt. When a pair of finishing-school flappers like +Betz and Corey try to impress me with their superiority +to workmen, and their extreme aristocracy and +Easternness, they make me tired. I <i>am</i> the East!"</p> + +<p>She had made peace with the Gilsons by night; she +had been reasonably repentant about not playing the +game of her hosts; but inside her eager heart she snuggled +a warm thought. She remembered how gaily she +had once promised, out on the road, to come to Milt's +room and cook for him. She thought of it with homesick +desire. His room probably wasn't particularly +decorative, and she doubted his having an electric +range, but it would be fun to fry eggs again, to see +him fumbling with the dish-washing, to chatter and +plan golden futures, and not worry about the opinions +of Mrs. Corey and Mrs. Betz.</p> + +<p>The next afternoon the limousine was not busy and +she borrowed it, with the handsome Greek chauffeur.</p> + +<p>She gave him an address not far from the university.</p> + +<p>He complained, "Pardon me, miss, but I think you +have the wrong number. That block is a low quarter."</p> + +<p>"Probably! But that's the right number!"</p> + +<p>He raised his Athenian eyebrows, and she realized +what a mistake she had made in not bringing the +lethal tea-strainer along. When they had stopped in +front of a cheap candy-store, he opened the door of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[288]</a></span> +the car with such frigid reserve that she thought seriously +about slapping him.</p> + +<p>She climbed the stingy, flapping stairs, and knocked +at the first door in the upper hall. It was opened by a +large apron, to which a sleepy woman was an unimportant +attachment, and out of the mass of apron +and woman came a yawning, "Mr. Daggett's room is +down the hall on the right."</p> + +<p>Claire knocked at a door which had at various +epochs been blue, yellow, and pink, and now was all +three. No answer. She tried the knob, went in.</p> + +<p>She could not tell whether it was the barrenness +of the room, or Milt's carefulness, that caught her. +The uncarpeted boards of the floor were well swept. +He had only one plate, one spoon, but they were +scoured, and put away on newspaper-covered shelves +in a cupboard made of a soap-box. Behind a calico +curtain was his new suit, dismayingly neat on its +hanger. On the edge of the iron sink primly washed +and spread out to dry, was a tattered old rag. At +the sight of it, at the thought of Milt solemnly washing +dishes, the tears began to creep to her eyes.</p> + +<p>There was but one picture in the room—a half-tone +of a girl, clipped from a magazine devoted to actresses. +The name was cut off. As she wondered at it, Claire +saw that the actress was very much like herself.</p> + +<p>The only other ornament was a papier-mâché figure +of a cat, a cat reminiscent of the Lady Vere de Vere.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[289]</a></span> +Claire picked it up. On the bottom was the price-mark—three +cents.</p> + +<p>It was the price-mark that pierced her. She flung +across the room, dropped on his creaky cot-bed, +howled, "Oh, I've been a beast—a beast—a beast! +All the pretty things—limousines and marble baths—thinking +so much of them, and not wanting them for +<i>him</i>! And he with so little, with just nothing—he +that would appreciate jolly things so much—here in +this den, and making it as tolerable as he can—and +me half ashamed of him instead of fighting for +him—— I belong with Corey and Betz. Oh, I'm so +ashamed, so bitterly ashamed."</p> + +<p>She patted his bed smooth with nervous eager +fingers.</p> + +<p>She scraped a pin-point of egg-yolk off a platter.</p> + +<p>Before she had been home five minutes she had +written a note asking him to tea for next day.</p> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[290]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXVIII<br /> +THE MORNING COAT OF MR. HUDSON B. RIGGS</h2> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">Mr. Hudson B. Riggs</span> now enters the tale—somewhat +tardily, and making a quick exit, +all in a morning coat too tight about the shoulders, +and a smile of festivity too tight about the lips. He +looked as improbable as an undertaker's rubber-plant. +Yet in his brief course he had a mighty effect upon +the progress of civilization as exemplified in the social +career of Mr. Milton Daggett.</p> + +<p>Mr. Riggs had arrived at a golden position in +Alaskan mining engineering by way of the farm, the +section gang, the surveyor's chain, and prospecting; +and his thick hands showed his evolution. His purpose +in life was to please Mrs. Riggs, and he wasn't +ever going to achieve his purpose in life. She wore +spangles, and her corsets creaked, and she smiled nervously, +and could tell in a glance quicker than the 1/100 +kodak shutter whether or not a new acquaintance was +"worth cultivating." She had made Mr. Riggs thoroughly +safe and thoroughly unhappy in the pursuit of +society. He stood about keeping from doing anything +he might want to, and he was profusely polite to young +cubs whom he longed to have in his office—so that he +could get even with them.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[291]</a></span>What Mr. Riggs wanted to do, at the third large +tea given by Mrs. Gilson for Miss Claire Boltwood, +was to sneak out on the sun-porch and play over the +new records on the phonograph; but the things he had +heard from Mrs. Riggs the last time he'd done that +had convinced him that it was not a wise method of +escape. So he stood by the fireplace—safe on one +side at least—and ate lettuce sandwiches, which he +privately called "cow feed," and listened to a shining, +largely feminine crowd rapidly uttering unintelligible +epigrams from which he caught only the words, "Ripping +hand—trained nurse—whipcord—really worth +seeing—lost the ball near the second hole—most absurd +person—new maid—thanks so much." He was hoping +that some one would come around and let him be +agreeable. He knew that he stood the ride home with +Mrs. Riggs much better after he had been agreeable +to people he didn't like.</p> + +<p>What Mr. Riggs did not know was that a young +man in uninteresting blue, who looked like a good +tennis-player, was watching him. It wasn't because +he detected a fellow soul in purgatory but because he +always was obsequious outside of his office that Mr. +Riggs bowed so profusely that he almost lost his tea-cup, +when the young man in blue drifted to him and +suggested, "I hear you're in the Alaskan mining-game, +Mr. Riggs."</p> + +<p>"Oh yes."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[292]</a></span>"Do you get up there much now?"</p> + +<p>"No, not much."</p> + +<p>"I hope to hit Alaska some day—I'm taking engineering +at the U."</p> + +<p>"Do you? Straight?" Mr. Riggs violently set his +cup down on a table—Mrs. Riggs would later tell +him that he'd put it down in the wrong place, but +never mind. He leaned over Milt and snarled, "Offer +me a cigarette. I don't know if they smoke here, and +I dassn't be the first to try. Say, boy, Alaska—— I +wish I was there now! Say, it beats all hell how good +tea can taste in a tin cup, and how wishy-washy it is +in china. Boy, I don't know anything about you, but +you look all right, and when you get ready to go to +Alaska, you come to me, and I'll see if I can't give +you a chance to go up there. But don't ever come +back!"</p> + +<p>When the crowd began bubblingly to move toward +the door, Milt prepared to move—and bubble—with +them. Though Claire's note had sounded as though +she was really a little lonely, at the tea she had said +nothing to him except, "So glad you came. Do you +know Dolly Ransome? Dolly, this is my nice Mr. +Daggett. Take him and make him happy."</p> + +<p>Dolly hadn't made him in the least happy. She +had talked about tennis; she had with some detail +described her remarkable luck in beating one Sally +Saunders three sets. Now Milt was learning tennis.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[293]</a></span> +He was at the present period giving two hours a week +to tennis, two to dancing, two to bridge. But he preferred +cleaning oil-wells to any of these toilsome accomplishments, +and it must sadly be admitted that all +the while he was making his face bright at Dolly, he +was wondering what would happen if he interrupted +Dolly's gurgling, galloping, giggling multitudinousness +by shouting, "Oh, shut up!"</p> + +<p>When it seemed safe to go, and he tried to look as +though he too were oozing out to a Crane-Simplex, +Claire slipped beside him, soft as a shadow, and whispered, +"Please don't go. I want to talk to you. +<i>Please!</i>" There was fluttering wistfulness in her +voice, though instantly it was gone as she hastened +to the door and was to be heard asserting that she did +indeed love Seattle.</p> + +<p>Milt looked out into the hall. He studied a console +with a curious black and white vase containing a +single peacock feather, and a gold mirror shimmering +against a gray wall.</p> + +<p>"Lovely stuff. I like that mirror. Like a slew in +the evening. But it isn't worth being a slave for. +I'm not going to be a Mr. Riggs. Poor devil, he's +more of a servant than any of these maids. Certainly +am sorry for that poor fish. He'll have a chance to +take his coat off and sit down and smoke—when he's +dead!"</p> + +<p>The guests were gone; the Gilsons upstairs. Claire<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[294]</a></span> +came running, seized Milt's sleeve, coaxed him to the +davenport in the drawing-room—then sighed, and +rubbed her forehead, and looked so tired that he could +say nothing but, "Hope you haven't been overdoing."</p> + +<p>"No, just—just talking too much."</p> + +<p>He got himself to say, "Miss Ransome—the one +that's nuts about tennis—she's darn nice."</p> + +<p>"Is she?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, she's—she's—— What do you hear from +your father?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, he's back at work."</p> + +<p>"Trip do him good?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, a lot."</p> + +<p>"Did he——"</p> + +<p>"Milt! Tell me about you. What are you doing? +What are you studying? How do you live? Do you +really cook your own meals? Do you begin to get +your teeth into the engineering? Oh, do tell me +everything. I want to know, so much!"</p> + +<p>"There isn't a whole lot to tell. Mostly I'm getting +back into math. Been out of touch with it. I +find that I know more about motors than most of the +fellows. That helps. And about living—oh, I keep +conservative. Did you know I'd sold my garage?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, I didn't, I didn't!"</p> + +<p>He wondered why she said it with such stooping +shame, but he went on mildly, "Well, I got a pretty +good price, but of course I don't want to take any<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[295]</a></span> +chances on running short of coin, so I'm not splurging +much. And——" He looked at his nails, and whistled +a bar or two, and turned his head away, and +looked back with a shy, "And I'm learning to play +bridge and tennis and stuff!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, my dear!" It was a cry of pain. She beat +her hands for a moment before she murmured, "When +are we going to have our lessons in dancing—and in +making an impression on sun-specks like Dolly Ransome?"</p> + +<p>"I don't know," he parried. Then, looking at her +honestly, he confessed, "I don't believe we're ever +going to. Claire, I can't do it. I'm no good for this +tea game. You know how clumsy I was. I spilled +some tea, and I darn near tripped over some woman's +dress and—— Oh, I'm not afraid of them. Now that +I get a good close look at this bunch, they seem pretty +much like other folks, except maybe that one old +dame says 'cawn't.' But I can't do the manners stunt. +I can't get myself to give enough thought to how you +ought to hold a tea-cup."</p> + +<p>"Oh, those things don't matter—they don't <i>matter</i>! +Besides, everybody likes you—only you're so terribly +cautious that you never let them see the force and +courage and all that wonderful sweet dear goodness +that's in you. And as for your manners—heaven +knows I'm no P. G. Wodehouse valet. But I'll teach +you all I know."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[296]</a></span>"Claire, I appreciate it a lot but—— I'm not so +darn sure I want to learn. I'm getting scared. I +watched that bird named Riggs here today. He's a +regular fellow, or he was, but now he's simply lost in +the shuffle. I don't want to be one of the million +ghosts in a city. Seattle is bad enough—it's so big +that I feel like a no-see-um in a Norway pine reserve. +But New York would be a lot worse. I don't want to +be a Mr. Riggs."</p> + +<p>"Yes, but—I'm not a Mrs. Riggs!"</p> + +<p>"What do you——"</p> + +<p>He did not finish asking her what she meant. She +was in his arms; she was whispering, "My heart is so +lonely;" and the room was still. The low sun flooded +the windows, swam in the mirror in the hall, but they +did not heed, did not see its gliding glory.</p> + +<p>Not till there was a sound of footsteps did she burst +from his arms, spring to her reflection in the glass of a +picture, and shamefacedly murmur to him over her +shoulder, "My hair—it's a terrible giveaway!"</p> + +<p>He had followed her; he stood with his arm circling +her shoulder.</p> + +<p>She begged, "No. Please no. I'm frightened. +Let's—oh, let's have a walk or something before you +scamper home."</p> + +<p>"Look! My dear! Let's run away, and explore +the town, and not come back till late evening."</p> + +<p>"Yes. Let's."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[297]</a></span>They walked from Queen Anne Hill through the +city to the docks. There was nothing in their excited, +childish, "Oh, see that!" and "There's a dandy car!" +and "Ohhhhh, that's a Minnesota license—wonder +who it is?" to confess that they had been so closely, +so hungrily together.</p> + +<p>They swung along a high walk overlooking the +city wharf. They saw a steamer loading rails and +food for the government railroad in Alaska. They +exclaimed over a nest of little, tarry fishing-boats. +They watched men working late to unload Alaska +salmon.</p> + +<p>They crossed the city to Jap Town and its writhing +streets, its dark alleys and stairways lost up the hillsides. +They smiled at black-eyed children, and found +a Japanese restaurant, and tried to dine on raw fish +and huge shrimps and roots soaked in a very fair +grade of light-medium motor oil.</p> + +<p>With Milt for guide, Claire discovered a Christianity +that was not of candles and shifting lights and insinuating +music, nor of carpets and large pews and +sound oratory, but of hoboes blinking in rows, and +girls in gospel bonnets, and little silver and crimson +placards of Bible texts. They stopped on a corner to +listen to a Pentecostal brother, to an I. W. W. speaker, +to a magnificent negro who boomed in an operatic +baritone that the Day of Judgment was coming on +April 11, 1923, at three in the morning.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[298]</a></span>In the streets of Jap Town, in cheap motion-picture +theaters, in hotels for transient workmen, she found +life, running swift and eager and many-colored; and +it seemed to her that back in the house of four-posters +and walls of subdued gray, life was smothered in the +very best pink cotton-batting. Milt's delight in every +picturesque dark corner, and the colloquial eloquence +of the street-orators, stirred her. And when she saw +a shopgirl caress the hand of a slouching beau in +threadbare brown, her own hand slipped into Milt's +and clung there.</p> + +<p>But they came shyly up to the Gilson hedge, and +when Milt chuckled, "Bully walk; let's do it again," +she said only, "Oh, yes, I did like it. Very much."</p> + +<p>He had abruptly dropped his beautiful new felt hat. +He was clutching her arms, demanding, "Can you +like me? Oh my God, Claire, I can't play at love. +I'm mad—I just live in you. You're my blood and +soul. Can I become—the kind of man you like?"</p> + +<p>"My dear!" She was fiercely addressing not him +alone but the Betzes and Coreys and Gilsons and Jeff +Saxtons, "don't you forget for one moment that all +these people—here or Brooklyn either—that seem so +aloof and amused, are secretly just plain people with +enamel on, and you're to have the very best enamel, +if it's worth while. I'm not sure that it is——"</p> + +<p>"You're going to kiss me!"</p> + +<p>"No! Please no! I don't—I don't understand us,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[299]</a></span> +even now. Can't we be just playmates a while yet? +But—I do like you!"</p> + +<p>She fled. When she reached the hall she found her +eyelids wet.</p> + +<p>It was the next afternoon——</p> + +<p>Claire was curled on the embroidered linen counterpane +of her bed, thinking about chocolates and Brooklyn +and driving through Yellowstone Park and corn +fritters and satin petticoats versus <i>crêpe de chine</i> and +Mount Rainier and Milt and spiritualism and manicuring, +when Mrs. Gilson prowled into her room and demanded +"Busy?" so casually that Claire was suspicious.</p> + +<p>"No. Not very. Something up?"</p> + +<p>"A nice party. Come down and meet an amusing +man from Alaska."</p> + +<p>Claire took her time powdering her nose, and ambled +downstairs and into the drawing-room, to +find——</p> + +<p>Jeff Saxton, Mr. Geoffrey Saxton, who is the height +of Brooklyn Heights, standing by the fireplace, smiling +at her.</p> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[300]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXIX<br /> +THE ENEMY LOVE</h2> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">But</span> at second glance—was it Jeff? This man +was tanned to a thick even brown in which his +eyes were startlingly white. His hands were burned +red; there was a scar across one of them; and he was +standing with them cockily at his hips, all unlike the +sleekly, noisily quiet Jeff of Brooklyn. He was in +corduroy trousers and belted corduroy jacket, with a +khaki-colored flannel shirt.</p> + +<p>But his tranquilly commanding smile was Jeff's, +and his lean grace; and Jeff's familiar amused voice +greeted her paralyzed amazement with:</p> + +<p>"Hello, pard! Ain't I met you some place in Montana?"</p> + +<p>"Well—where—in—the——"</p> + +<p>"Just landed from Alaska. Had to run up there +from California. How are you, little princess?"</p> + +<p>His hand was out to her, then both hands, beseechingly, +but she did not run to him, as she had at Flathead +Lake. She stalked him cautiously, and shook +hands—much too heartily. She sought cover in the +wing-chair and—much too cordially—she invited:</p> + +<p>"Tell me all about it."</p> + +<p>He was watching her. Already his old pursuing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[301]</a></span> +determination, his steady dignity, were beginning to +frighten her. But he calmly dropped into a straight +chair, and obliged:</p> + +<p>"It's really been quite a lively journey. Didn't +know I could like roughing-it so well. And it was real +roughing-it, pretty much. Oh, not dangerous at all, +but rather vigorous. I had to canoe up three hundred +miles of a shallow river, with one Indian guide, making +a portage every ten miles or so, and we got tipped +over in the rapids now and then—the Big Chief almost +got drowned once—and we camped at night in the +original place where they invented mosquitoes—and +one morning I shot a black bear just in time to keep +him from eating my boots."</p> + +<p>"Oh!" she sighed in admiration, and "Oh!" again, +uneasily.</p> + +<p>Nothing had been said about it; Jeff was the last +person in the world to spoil his triumph by commenting +on it; but both of them knew that they had violently +changed places; that now it was she who was +the limp indoor-dweller, and he who was the ruddy +ranger; that as he had admired her at Flathead Lake, +so now it was hers to admire, and his to be serenely +heroic.</p> + +<p>She was not far from the worshiping sub-deb in +her sighing, "How <i>did</i> you get the scar?"</p> + +<p>"That? Oh, nothing."</p> + +<p>"Please tell me."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[302]</a></span>"Really and truly. Nothing at all. Just a drunken +fellow with a knife, playing the fool. I didn't have +to touch him—quite sure he could have given me a +frightful beating and all that sort of thing. It was the +Big Chief who got rid of him."</p> + +<p>"He—cut you? With a kniiiiiife? Ohhhhhhh!"</p> + +<p>She ran to him, pityingly stroked the scar, looked +down at him with filmy eyes. Then she tried to retreat, +but he retained her hand, glanced up at her as +though he knew her every thought. She felt weak. +How could she escape him? "Please!" she begged +flutteringly.</p> + +<p>If he held her hand another moment, she trembled, +she'd be on his lap, in his arms—lost. And he was +holding it. He was——</p> + +<p>Oh, he was too old for her. Yes, and too paternal. +But still—— Life with Jeff would be protected, +kindly, honorable.</p> + +<p>Yet all the time she wanted, and stormily knew she +wanted, to be fleeing to the boy Milt, her mate; to run +away with him, hand in hand, discovering all the colored +world, laughing at life, not afraid of losing dignity. +In fear of Jeff's very kindliness and honor, she +jerked her hand free. Then she tried to smile like +a clever fencer.</p> + +<p>As she retreated to her chair she stammered, "Did +you—— Was Alaska interesting?"</p> + +<p>He did not let her go, this time. Easy, cat-like for<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[303]</a></span> +all his dry gravity, he sauntered after her, and with +a fine high seriousness pleaded his case:</p> + +<p>"Claire dear, those few weeks of fighting nature +were a revelation to me. I'm going to have lots more +of it. As it happens, they need me there. There's +plenty of copper, but there's big transportation and +employment problems that I seem better able to solve +than the other chaps—though of course I'm an absolute +muff when it comes to engineering problems. But +I've had certain training and—I'm going to arrange +things so that I get up there at least once a year. Next +summer I'll make a much longer trip—see the mountains—oh, +glorious mountains—and funny half-Russian +towns, and have some fishing—— Wandering. +The really big thing. Even finer than your superb +plucky trip through——"</p> + +<p>"Wasn't plucky! I'm a cry baby," she said, like +a bad, contradictory little girl.</p> + +<p>He didn't argue it. He smiled and said "Tut!" +and placidly catalogued her with, "You're the pluckiest +girl I've ever seen, and it's all the more amazing +because you're not a motion-picture Tomboy, but essentially +exquisite——"</p> + +<p>"I'm a grub."</p> + +<p>"Very well, then. You're a grub. So am I. And +I like it. And when I make the big Alaskan trip +next year I want you to go along! Claire! Haven't +you any idea how terribly close to me the thought of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[304]</a></span> +you has been these weeks? You've guided me +through the wilderness——"</p> + +<p>"It's—— I'm glad." She sprang up, beseeching, +"Jeff dear, you're going to stay for tea? I must run +up and powder my nose."</p> + +<p>"Not until you say you're glad to see me. Child +dear, we've been ambling along and—— No. You +aren't a child any more. You're a woman. And if +I've never been quite a man, but just a dusty office-machine, +that's gone now. I've got the wind of the +wilderness in my lungs. Man and woman! My +woman! That's all I'm going to say now, but—— Oh +my God, Claire, I do need you so!"</p> + +<p>He drew her head to his shoulder, and for an +instant she rested there. But as she looked up, she +saw coming age in the granulated skin of his throat.</p> + +<p>"He needs me—but he'd boss me. I'd be the cunning +child-wife, even at fifty," she worried, and +"Hang him, it's like his superiority to beat poor Milt +even at adventuring—and to be such a confounded +Modest Christian Gentleman about it!"</p> + +<p>"You'd—you're so dreadfully managing," she +sighed aloud.</p> + +<p>For the first time in all their acquaintanceship, Jeff's +pride broke, and he held her away from him, while +his lips were pathetic, and he mourned, "Why do you +always try to hurt me?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, my dear, I don't."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[305]</a></span>"Is it because you resent the decent things I have +managed to do?"</p> + +<p>"I don't understand."</p> + +<p>"If I have an idea for a party, you think I'm +'managing.' If I think things out deeply, you say +I'm dull."</p> + +<p>"Oh, you aren't. I didn't mean——"</p> + +<p>"What are you? A real woman, or one of these +flirts, that love to tease a man because he's foolish +enough to be honestly in love?"</p> + +<p>"I'm not—hon-estly I'm not, Jeff. It's—— You +don't quite make me—— It's just that I'm not in love +with you. I like you, and respect you terribly, +but——"</p> + +<p>"I'm going to make you love me." His clutching +fingers hurt her arm, and somehow she was not angry, +but stirred. "But I'm not going to try now. Forget +the Alaskan caveman. Remember, I haven't even used +the word 'love.' I've just chatted about fjords, or +whatever they are, but one of these days—— No. +I won't do it. I want to stay here in Seattle a few +days, and take you on jolly picnics, but—— Would +you rather I didn't even do that? I'm——" He +dropped her arm, kneaded his forehead with the heel +of his palm. "I can't stand being regarded as a +bothersome puppy. I can't stand it! I can't!"</p> + +<p>"Please stay, Jeff! We'll have some darling drives +and things. We'll go up Rainier as far as we can."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[306]</a></span>He stayed. He was anecdotal and amusing at tea, +that afternoon. Claire saw how the Gilsons, and two +girls who dropped in, admired him. That made her +uneasy. And when Mrs. Gilson begged him to leave +his hotel and stay with them, he refused with a quick +look at Claire that hurt her.</p> + +<p>"He wants me to be free. He's really so much +more considerate than Milt. And I hurt him. Even +his pride broke down. And I've spoiled Milt's life by +meddling. And I've hurt the Gilsons' feelings. And +I'm not much of a comfort to father. Oh, I'm absolutely +no good," she agonized.</p> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[307]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXX<br /> +THE VIRTUOUS PLOTTERS</h2> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">Mr. Geoffrey Saxton</span>, in Alaskan tan +and New York evening clothes and Piccadilly +poise, was talking to the Eugene Gilsons while Claire +finished dressing for the theater.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Gilson observed, "She's the dearest thing. +We've become awfully fond of her. But I don't +think she knows what she wants to do with life. +She's rather at loose ends. Who is this Daggett boy—some +university student—whom she seems to like?"</p> + +<p>"Well, since you speak of him—— I hadn't meant +to, unless you did. I want to be fair to him. What +did she tell you about him?" Jeff asked confidentially.</p> + +<p>"Nothing, except that he's a young engineer, and +frightfully brave and all those uncomfortable virtues, +and she met him in Yellowstone Park or somewhere, +and he saved her from a bear—or was it a tramp?—from +something unnecessary, at any rate."</p> + +<p>"Eva, I don't want to be supercilious, but the truth +is that this young Daggett is a rather dreadful person. +He's been here at the house, hasn't he? How did he +strike you?"</p> + +<p>"Not at all. He's silent, and as dull as lukewarm +tea, but perfectly inoffensive."</p> + +<p>"Then he's cleverer than I thought! Daggett is +anything but dull and inoffensive, and if he can play<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[308]</a></span> +that estimable rôle——! It seems that he is the son +of some common workman in the Middlewest; he +isn't an engineer at all; he's really a chauffeur or a +taxi-driver or something; and he ran into Claire and +Henry B. on the road, and somehow insinuated himself +into their graces—far from being silent and commonplace, +he appears to have some strange kind of +charm which," Jeff sighed, "I don't understand at all. +I simply don't understand it!</p> + +<p>"I met him in Montana with the most gorgeously +atrocious person I've ever encountered—one Pinky +Westlake, or some such a name—positively, a crook! +He tried to get Boltwood and myself interested in the +commonest kind of a mining swindle—hinted that we +were to join him in cheating the public. And this +Daggett was his partner—they actually traveled together. +But I do want to be just. I'm not <i>sure</i> that +Daggett was aware of his partner's dishonesty. That +isn't what worries me about the lad. It's his utter +impossibility. He's as crude as iron-ore. When he's +being careful, he may manage to be inconspicuous, +but give him the chance——</p> + +<p>"Really, I'm not exaggerating when I say that +at thirty-five he'll be dining in his shirt-sleeves, and +sitting down to read the paper with his shoes off and +feet up on the table. But Claire—you know what +a dear Quixotic soul she is—she fancies that because +this fellow repaired a puncture or something of the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[309]</a></span> +sort for her on the road, she's indebted to him, and +the worse he is, the more she feels that she must +help him. And affairs of that kind—— Oh, it's quite +too horrible, but there have been cases, you know, +where girls as splendid and fine and well-bred as Claire +herself have been trapped into low marriages by their +loyalty to cadging adventurers!"</p> + +<p>"Oh!" groaned Mrs. Gilson; and "Good Lord!" +lamented Mr. Gilson, delighted by the possibility of +tragedy; and "Really, I'm not exaggerating," said +Jeff enthusiastically.</p> + +<p>"What are we going to do?" demanded Mrs. Gilson; +while Mr. Gilson, being of a ready and inventive +mind, exclaimed, "By Jove, you ought to kidnap her +and marry her yourself, Jeff!"</p> + +<p>"I'd like to. But I'm too old."</p> + +<p>They beautifully assured him that he was a blithe +young thing with milk teeth; and with a certain satisfaction +Jeff suggested, "I tell you what we might do. +Of course it's an ancient stunt, but it's good. I judge +that Daggett hasn't been here at the house much. +Why not have him here so often that Claire will +awaken to his crudity, and get sick of him?"</p> + +<p>"We'll do it," thrilled Mrs. Gilson. "We'll have +him for everything from nine-course dinners with +Grandmother Eaton's napkins on view, to milk and +cold ham out of the ice-box. When Claire doesn't +invite him, I will!"</p> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[310]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXI<br /> +THE KITCHEN INTIMATE</h2> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">Milt</span> had become used to the Gilson drawing-room. +He was no longer uncomfortable in +the presence of its sleek fatness, though at first (not +knowing that there were such resources as interior +decorators), he had been convinced that, to have +created the room, the Gilsons must have known everything +in the world. Now he glanced familiarly at +its white paneling, its sconces like silver candlesticks, +the inevitable davenport inevitably backed by an +amethyst-shaded piano lamp and a table crowded with +silver boxes and picture-frames. He liked the winsomeness +of light upon velvet and polished wood.</p> + +<p>It was not the drawing-room but the kitchen that +dismayed him.</p> + +<p>In Schoenstrom he had known that there must somewhere +be beautiful "parlors," but he had trusted in +his experience of kitchens. Kitchens, according to his +philosophy, were small smelly rooms of bare floors, +and provided with one oilcloth-covered table, one stove +(the front draft always broken and propped up with +the lid-lifter), one cupboard with panes of tin pierced +in rosettes, and one stack of dirty dishes.</p> + +<p>But the Gilson kitchen had the efficiency of a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[311]</a></span> +laboratory and the superciliousness of a hair-dresser's +booth. With awe Milt beheld walls of white tiles, a +cork floor, a gas-range large as a hotel-stove, a ceiling-high +refrigerator of enamel and nickel, zinc-topped +tables, and a case of utensils like a surgeon's knives. +It frightened him; it made more hopelessly unapproachable +than ever the Alexandrian luxury of the +great Gilsons.... The Vanderbilts' kitchen must be +like this. And maybe King George's.</p> + +<p>He was viewing the kitchen upon the occasion of an +intimate Sunday evening supper to which he had been +yearningly invited by Mrs. Gilson. The maids were +all out. The Gilsons and Claire, Milt and Jeff Saxton, +shoutingly prepared their own supper. While Mrs. +Gilson scrambled eggs and made coffee, the others +set the table, and brought cold ham and a bowl of +salad from the ice-box.</p> + +<p>Milt had intended to be a silent but deft servitor. +When he had heard that he was to come to supper +with the returned Mr. Geoffrey Saxton, he had first +been panic-shaken, then resolved. He'd "let old iron-face +Saxton do the high and mighty. Let him stand +around and show off his clothes and adjectives, way +he did at Flathead Lake." But he, Milt, would be "on +the job." He'd help get supper, and calmly ignore +Jeff's rudeness.</p> + +<p>Only—Jeff wasn't rude. He greeted Milt with, +"Ah, Daggett! This is <i>so</i> nice!" And Milt had no<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[312]</a></span> +chance to help. It was Jeff who anticipated him and +with a pleasant, "Let me get that—I'm kitchen-broke," +snatched up the cold ham and salad. It was +Jeff who found the supper plates, while Milt was +blunderingly wondering how any one family could use +a "whole furniture-store-full of different kinds of +china." It was Jeff who sprang to help Claire wheel +in the tea-wagon, and so captured the chance to speak +to her for which Milt had been maneuvering these +five minutes.</p> + +<p>When they were settled, Jeff glowed at him, and +respectfully offered, "I thought of you so often, Daggett, +on a recent little jaunt of mine. You'd have been +helpful."</p> + +<p>"Where was that?" asked Milt suspiciously (wondering, +and waiting to see, whether you could take cold +ham in your fingers).</p> + +<p>"Oh, in Alaska."</p> + +<p>"In—Alaska?" Milt was dismayed.</p> + +<p>"Yes, just a business trip there. There's something +I wish you'd advise me about."</p> + +<p>He was humble. And Milt was uneasy. He +grumbled, "What's that?"</p> + +<p>"I've been wondering whether it would be possible +to use wireless telephony in Alaska. But I'm such +a dub at electricity. Do you know—— What would +be the cost of installing a wireless telephone plant with +a hundred-mile radius?"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[313]</a></span>"Gee, I don't know!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, so sorry. Well, I wonder if you can tell +me about wireless telegraphy, then?"</p> + +<p>"No, I don't know anything about that either."</p> + +<p>Milt had desperately tried to make his answer +gracious but somehow—— He hated this devil's +obsequiousness more than he had his chilliness at +Flathead Lake. He had a feeling that the Gilsons +had delightedly kicked each other under the table; +that, for all her unchanging smile, Claire was unhappy.... +And she was so far off, a white wraith +floating beyond his frantic grasp.</p> + +<p>"It doesn't matter, really. But I didn't know—— So +you've started in the engineering school at the +University of Washington," Saxton was purring. +"Have you met Gid Childers there—son of old +Senator Childers—charming people."</p> + +<p>"I've seen him. He has a Stutz—no, his is the +Mercer," sighed Milt.</p> + +<p>He hated himself for it, but he couldn't quite keep +the awe out of his voice. People with Mercers——</p> + +<p>Claire seemed to be trying to speak. She made a +delicate, feminine, clairesque approximation to clearing +her throat. But Jeff ignored her and with almost +osculatory affection continued to Milt:</p> + +<p>"Do let me know if there's anything I can do to +help you. We're acquainted with two or three of +your engineering faculty at the Office. They write<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[314]</a></span> +in about various things. Do you happen to know Dr. +Philgren?"</p> + +<p>"Oh yes. Say! He's a wonder!" Milt was betrayed +into exclaiming.</p> + +<p>"Yes. Good chap, I believe. He's been trying to +get a job with us. We may give him one. Just tell +him you're a friend of mine, and that he's to give you +any help he can."</p> + +<p>Milt choked on a "Thanks."</p> + +<p>"And—now that we're just the family here together—how +goes the financial side? Can I be of +any assistance in introducing you to some engineering +firm where you could do a little work on the side? You +could make quite a little money——"</p> + +<p>So confoundedly affectionate and paternal——</p> + +<p>Milt said irritably, "Thanks, but I don't need to do +any work. I've got plenty of money."</p> + +<p>"How pleasant!" Saxton's voice was smooth as +marshmallow. "You're fortunate. I had quite a +struggle to get through Princeton."</p> + +<p>Wasn't Mr. Gilson contrasting Saxton's silk shirt +with Milt's darned cotton covering, and in light of +that contrast chuckling at Milt's boast and Saxton's +modesty? Milt became overheated. His scalp prickled +and his shoulder-blades were damp. As Saxton turned +from him, and crooned to Claire, "More ham, +honey?" Milt hated himself. He was in much of the +dramatic but undesirable position of a man in pajamas,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[315]</a></span> +not very good pajamas, who has been locked out in +the hotel corridor by the slamming of his door. He +was in the frame of mind of a mongrel, of a real +Boys'-Dog, at a Madison Square dog-show. He had a +faint shrewd suspicion of Saxton's game. But what +could he do about it?</p> + +<p>He felt even more out of place when the family forgot +him and talked about people of whom he had +never heard.</p> + +<p>He sat alone on an extremely distant desert isle and +ate cold ham and wished he were in Schoenstrom.</p> + +<p>Claire had recovered her power of speech. She +seemed to be trying to bring him into the conversation, +so that the family might appreciate him.</p> + +<p>She hesitated, and thought with creased brows, and +brought out, "Uh, uh, oh—— Oh Milt: How much +is gas selling at now?"...</p> + +<hr class="shr" /> + +<p>Milt left that charming and intimate supper-party at +nine. He said, "Got to work on—on my analytical +geometry," as though it was a lie; and he threw +"Good night" at Saxton as though he hated his kind, +good benefactor; and when he tried to be gracious +to Mrs. Gilson the best he could get out was, "Thanks +f' inviting me." They expansively saw him to the +door. Just as he thought that he had escaped, Saxton +begged, "Oh, Daggett, I was arguing with a chap—— What +color are Holstein-Friesian cattle? Red?"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[316]</a></span>"Black and white," Milt said eagerly.</p> + +<p>He heard Mrs. Gilson giggle.</p> + +<p>He stood on the terrace wiping his forehead and, +without the least struggle, finally and irretrievably +admitting that he would never see Claire Boltwood or +any of her friends again. Not—never!</p> + +<hr class="shr" /> + +<p>He had received from Mrs. Gilson a note inviting +him to share their box at the first night of a three-night +Opera Season. He had spent half a day in trying +to think of a courteously rude way of declining.</p> + +<p>A straggly little girl came up from the candy-shop +below his room, demanding, "Say, are you Mr. Daggett? +Say, there's some woman wants to talk to you +on our telephone. Say, tell them we ain't supposed to +be no messenger-office. You ain't supposed to call no +upstairs people on our telephone. We ain't supposed +to leave the store and go trotting all over town to—— Gee, +a nickel, gee, thank you, don't mind what ma +says, she's always kicking."</p> + +<p>On the telephone, he heard Claire's voice in an agitated, +"Milt! Meet me down-town, at the Imperial +Motion Picture Theater, right away. Something I've +got to tell you. I'll be in the lobby. Hurry!"</p> + +<p>When he bolted in she was already in the lobby, +agitatedly looking over a frame of "stills." She ran +to him, hooked her fingers in his lapel, poured out, +"They've invited you to the opera? I want you to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[317]</a></span> +come and put it all over them. I'm almost sure there's +a plot. They want to show me that you aren't used +to tiaras and saxophones and creaking dowagers and +tulle. Beat 'em! Beat 'em! Come to the opera and be +awf'ly aloof and supercilious. You can! Yes, you can! +And be sure—wear evening clothes. Now I've got to +hurry."</p> + +<p>"B-but——"</p> + +<p>"Don't disappoint me. I depend on you. Oh, say +you will!"</p> + +<p>"I will!"</p> + +<p>She was gone, whisking into the Gilson limousine. +He was in a glow at her loyalty, in a tremor of anger +at the meddlers.</p> + +<p>But he had never worn evening clothes.</p> + +<p>He called it "a dress-suit," and before the complications +of that exotic garb, he was flabby with +anxiety. To Milt and to Schoenstrom—to Bill McGolwey, +even to Prof Jones and the greasily prosperous +Heinie Rauskukle—the dress-suit was the symbol +and proof, the indication and manner, of sophisticated +wealth. In Schoenstrom even waiters do not wear +dress-suits. For one thing there aren't any waiters. +There is one waitress at the Leipzig House, Miss +Annie Schweigenblat, but you wouldn't expect Miss +Schweigenblat to deal them off the arm in black +trousers with braid down the side.</p> + +<p>No; a dress-suit was what the hero wore in the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[318]</a></span> +movies; and the hero in the movies, when he wasn't +a cowpuncher, was an ex-captain of the Yale football +team, and had chambers and a valet. You could +tell him from the valet because he wasn't so bald. It +is true that Milt had heard that in St. Cloud there +were people who wore dress-suits at parties, but then +St. Cloud was a city, fifteen or sixteen thousand.</p> + +<p>"How could he get away with a dress-suit? How +could he keep from feeling foolish in a low-cut vest, +and what the deuce would he do with the tails? Did +you part 'em or roll 'em up, when you sat down? And +wouldn't everybody be able to tell from his foolish +look that he didn't belong in one?" He could hear +A.D.T. boys and loafers in front of pool rooms +whispering, "Look at the piker in the rented soup +and fish!"</p> + +<p>For of course he'd rent one. Nobody bought them—except +plutes like Henry B. Boltwood.</p> + +<p>He agitatedly walked up and down for an hour, +peering into haberdashery windows, looking for a +kind-faced young man. He found him, in Ye Pall +Mall Toggery Shoppe & Shoes; an open-faced young +man who was gazing through the window as sparklingly +as though he was thinking of going as a missionary +to India—and liked curry. Milt ironed out +his worried face, clumped in, demanded fraternally, +"Say, old man, don't some of these gents' furnishings +stores have kind of little charts that tell just what you<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[319]</a></span> +wear with dress-suits and Prince Alberts and everything?"</p> + +<p>"You bet," said the kind-faced young man.</p> + +<p>West of Chicago, "You bet" means "Rather," and +"Yes indeed," and "On the whole I should be inclined +to fancy that there may be some vestiges of accuracy +in your curious opinion," and "You're a liar but I +can't afford to say so."</p> + +<p>The kind-faced young man brought from behind the +counter a beautiful brochure illustrated with photographs +of Phoebus Apollo in what were described as +"American Beauty Garments—neat, natty, nobby, +new." The center pages faithfully catalogued the +ties, shirts, cuff-links, spats, boots, hats, to wear with +evening clothes, morning clothes, riding clothes, tennis +costumes, polite mourning.</p> + +<p>As he looked it over Milt felt that his wardrobe already +contained all these gentlemanly possessions.</p> + +<p>With the aid of the clerk and the chart he purchased +a tradition-haunted garment with a plate-armor bosom +and an opening as crooked as the Missouri River; a +white tie which in his strong red hands looked as silly +as a dead fish; waistcoat, pearl links, and studs. For +the first time, except for seizures of madness during +two or three visits to Minneapolis motor accessory +stores, he caught the shopping-fever. The long shining counter, +the trim red-stained shelves, the glittering cases, +the racks of flaunting ties, were beautiful<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[320]</a></span> +to him and beckoning. He revolved a pleasantly +clicking rack of ties, then turned and fought his way +out.</p> + +<p>He bought pumps—which cost exactly twice as much +as the largest sum which he had allowed himself. He +bought a newspaper, and in the want-columns found +the advertisement:</p> + +<p class="center"><big>Silberfarb the Society Tailor<br /> +DRESS SUITS TO RENT<br /> +Snappiest in the City</big></p> + +<p>Despite the superlative snappiness of Mr. Silberfarb's +dress-suits his establishment was a loft over a +delicatessen, approached by a splintery stairway along +which hung shabby signs announcing the upstairs +offices of "J. L. & T. J. O'Regan, Private Detectives," +"The Zenith Spiritualist Church, Messages by Rev. +Lulu Paughouse," "The International Order of Live +Ones, Seattle Wigwam," and "Mme. Lavourie, +Sulphur Baths." The dead air of the hallway suggested +petty crookedness. Milt felt that he ought to +fight somebody but, there being no one to fight, he +banged along the flapping boards of the second-floor +hallway to the ground-glass door of Silberfarb the +Society Tailor, who was also, as an afterthought +on a straggly placard, "Pressng & Cleang While U +Wait."</p> + +<p>He belligerently shouldered into a low room. The<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[321]</a></span> +light from the one window was almost obscured by +racks of musty-smelling black clothes which stretched +away from him in two dismal aisles that resembled a +morgue of unhappy dead men indecently hung up on +hooks. On a long, clumsily carpentered table, a small +Jew, collarless, sweaty, unshaven, was darning trousers +under an evil mantle gaslight. The Jew wrung out his +hands and tried to look benevolent.</p> + +<p>"Want to rent a dress-suit," said Milt.</p> + +<p>"I got just the t'ing for you!"</p> + +<p>The little man unfolded himself, galloped down the +aisle, seized the first garment that came to hand, and +came back to lay it against Milt's uncomfortable frame, +bumbling, "Fine, mister, fy-en!"</p> + +<p>Milt studied the shiny-seamed, worn-buttonholed, +limp object with dislike. Its personality was disintegrated. +The only thing he liked about it was the +good garage stink of gasoline.</p> + +<p>"That's almost worn out," he growled.</p> + +<p>At this sacrilege Mr. Silberfarb threw up his hands, +with the dingy suit flapping in them like a bed-quilt +shaken from a tenement window. He looked Milt all +over, coldly. His red but shining eyes hinted that +Milt was a clodhopper and no honest wearer of evening +clothes. Milt felt humble, but he snapped, "No +good. Want something with class."</p> + +<p>"Vell, that was good enough for a university professor +at the big dance, but if you say so——"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[322]</a></span>In the manner of one who is being put to an unfair +amount of trouble, Mr. Silberfarb returned the +paranoiac dress-suit to the rack, sighing patiently as +he laboriously draped it on a hanger. He peered and +pawed. He crowed with throaty triumph and brought +back a rich ripe thing of velvet collar and cuffs. He +fixed Milt with eyes that had become as sulky as the +eyes of a dog in August dust.</p> + +<p>"Now that—you can't beat that, if you vant class, +and it'll fit you like a glove. Oh, that's an ellllegant +garment!"</p> + +<p>Shaking himself out of the spell of those contemptuous +eyes Milt opened his brochure, studied the chart, +and in a footnote found, "Never wear velvet collars +or cuffs with evening coat."</p> + +<p>"Nope. Nix on the velvet," he remarked.</p> + +<p>Then the little man went mad and ran around in +circles. He flung the ellllegant garment on the table. +He flapped his arms, and wailed, "What do you vant? +What do you vannnnt? That's a hundred-and-fifty-dollar +dress-suit! That belonged to one of the richest +men in the city. He sold it to me because he was +going to Japan."</p> + +<p>"Well, you can send it to Japan after him. I want +something decent. Have you got it—or shall I go +some place else?"</p> + +<p>The tailor instantly became affectionate. "How +about a nice Tuxedo?" he coaxed.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[323]</a></span>"Nope. It says here—let me see—oh yes, here it +is—it says here in the book that for the theater-with-ladies, +should not wear 'dinner-coat or so-called +Tuxedo, but——'"</p> + +<p>"Oh, dem fellows what writes books they don't +know nothing. Absolute! They make it up."</p> + +<p>"Huh! Well, I guess I'll take my chance on them. +The factory knows the ignition better 'n any repair-man."</p> + +<p>"Vell say, you're a hard fellow to please. I'll give +you one of my reserve stock, but you got to leave me +ten dollars deposit instead of five."</p> + +<p>Mr. Silberfarb quite cheerfully unlocked a glass +case behind the racked and ghostly dead; he brought +out a suit that seemed to Milt almost decent. And it +almost fitted when, after changing clothes in a broiling, +boiling, reeking, gasoline-pulsing hole behind the +racks, he examined it before a pier-glass. But he +caught the tailor assisting the fit by bunching up a +roll of cloth at the shoulder. Again Milt snapped, and +again the tailor suffered and died, and to a doubting +heathen world maintained the true gospel of "What +do you vannnnt? It ain't stylish to have the dress-suit +too tight! All the gents is wearing 'em loose and +graceful." But in the end, after Milt had gone as +far as the door, Mr. Silberfarb admitted that one dress-coat +wouldn't always fit all persons without some +alterations.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[324]</a></span>The coat did bag a little, and it was too long in the +sleeves, but as Milt studied himself in his room—by +placing his small melancholy mirror on the bureau, +then on a chair, then on the floor, finally, to get a complete +view, clear out in the hall—he admitted with +stirring delight that he looked "pretty fair in the +bloomin' outfit." His clear face, his shining hair, his +straight shoulders, seemed to go with the costume.</p> + +<p>He wriggled into his top-coat and marched out of +his room, theater-bound, with the well-fed satisfaction +of a man who is certain that no one is giggling, +"Look at the hand-me-downs." His pumps did alternately +pinch his toes and rub his heels; the trousers +cramped his waist; and he suspected that his tie had +gone wandering. But he swaggered to the trolley, +and sat as one rich and famous and very kind to the +Common People, till——</p> + +<p>Another man in evening clothes got on the car, and +Milt saw that he wore a silk hat, and a white knitted +scarf; that he took out and examined a pair of white +kid gloves.</p> + +<p>He'd forgotten the hat! He was wearing his gray +felt. He could risk the gloves, but the hat—the +"stovepipe"—and the chart had said to wear one—he +was ruined——</p> + +<p>He turned up the collar of his top-coat to conceal +his white tie, tried to hide each of his feet behind the +other to cover up his pumps; sought to change his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[325]</a></span> +expression from that of a superior person in evening +clothes to that of a decent fellow in honest Regular +Clothes. Had the conductor or any of the passengers +realized that he was a dub in a dress-suit without the +hat?</p> + +<p>Once he thought that the real person in real evening +clothes was looking at him. He turned his head +and bore the probable insult in weak misery.</p> + +<p>Too feeble for anything but thick suffering he was +dragged on toward the theater, the opera, people in +silk hats—toward Jeff Saxton and exposure.</p> + +<p>But his success in bullying the tailor had taught him +that dressing wasn't really a hidden lore to be known +only by initiates; that some day he too might understand +the black and white magic of clothes. His +bruised self-consciousness healed. "I'll do—something," +he determined. He waited, vacuously.</p> + +<p>The Gilson party was not in the lobby when he +arrived. He tore off his top-coat. He draped it over +his felt hat, so that no one could be sure what sort +of hat it shamefully concealed. That unveiling did +expose him to the stare of everybody waiting in the +lobby. He was convinced that the entire ticket-buying +cue was glumly resenting him. Peeping down at the +unusual white glare of his shirt-front, he felt naked +and indecent.... "Nice kind o' vest. Must make +'em out of old piqué collars."</p> + +<p>He endured his martyrdom till his party arrived—the Gilsons,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">[326]</a></span> +Claire, Jeff Saxton, and a glittering +young woman whose name, Milt thought, was Mrs. +Corey.</p> + +<p>And Saxton wasn't wearing a high hat! He wore +a soft one, and he didn't seem to care!</p> + +<p>Milt straightened up, followed them through the +manifold dangers of the lobby, down a perilous aisle +of uptilted scornful faces, to a red narrow corridor, +winding stairs, a secret passage, a mysterious dark +closet—and he walked out into a room with one +side missing, and, on that side, ten trillion people in +a well, and nine trillion of them staring at him and +noticing that he'd rented his dress-suit. Hot about the +neck, he stumbled over one or two chairs, and was +permitted to rest in a foolish little gilt chair in the +farthest corner.</p> + +<p>Once safe, he felt much better. Except that Jeff did +put on white kid gloves, Milt couldn't see that they +two looked so different. And neither of the two men +in the next box wore gloves. Milt made sure of that +comfort; he reveled in it; he looked at Claire, and in +her loyal smile found ease.</p> + +<p>He snarled, "She trusts you. Forget you're a dub. +Try to be human. Hang it, I'm no greener at the +opera than old horsehair sofa there would be at a +garage."</p> + +<p>There was something—— What was it he was +trying to remember? Oh yes. When he'd worked in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[327]</a></span> +the Schoenstrom flour-mill, as engineer, at eighteen, +the owner had tried to torment him (to "get his goat," +Milt put it), and Milt had found that the one thing +that would save him was to smile as though he knew +more than he was telling. It did not, he remembered, +make any difference whether or not the smile was +real. If he merely looked the miller up and down, and +smiled cynically, he was let alone.</p> + +<p>Why not——</p> + +<p>Saxton was bending toward him, asking in honeyed +respectfulness:</p> + +<p>"Don't you think that the new school in music—audible +pointillage, one might call it—mistakes cacophony +for power?"</p> + +<p>Milt smiled, paternally.</p> + +<p>Saxton waited for something more. He dug the +nail of his right middle finger into his thumb, looked +thoughtful, and attacked again:</p> + +<p>"Which do you like better: the new Italian music, +or the orthodox German?"</p> + +<p>Milt smiled like two uncles watching a clever baby, +and patronized Saxton with, "They both have their +points."</p> + +<p>He saw that Claire was angry; but that the Gilsons +and Mrs. Corey, flap-eared, gape-mouthed, forward-bending, +were very proud of their little Jeff. He saw +that, except for their clothes and self-conscious coiffures, +they were exactly like a gang of cracker-box<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[328]</a></span> +loafers at Heinie Rauskukle's badgering a new boy in +town.</p> + +<p>Saxton looked bad-tempered. Then Mrs. Corey +bustled with her face and yearned at Milt, "Do tell +me: what is the theme of the opera tonight. I've +rather forgotten."</p> + +<p>Milt ceased to smile. While all of them regarded +him with interest he said clearly, "I haven't got the +slightest idea. I don't know anything about music. +Some day I hope I can get a clever woman like you to +help me, Mrs. Corey. It must be great to know all +about all these arts, the way you do. I wish you'd +explain that—overture they call it, don't they?"</p> + +<p>For some reason, Mr. Gilson was snickering, Mrs. +Corey flushing, Claire looking well pleased. Milt had +tried to be insulting, but had got lost in the intricacies +of the insult. He felt that he'd better leave it in its +apparently safe state, and he leaned back, and smiled +again, as though he was waiting. Mrs. Corey did not +explain the overture. She hastily explained her second +maid, to Mrs. Gilson.</p> + +<p>The opera was <i>Il Amore dei Tre Re</i>. Milt was +bewildered. To him, who had never seen an opera, the +convention that a girl cannot hear a man who is +bellowing ten feet away from her, was absurd; and +he wished that the singers would do something besides +making their arms swim.</p> + +<p>He discovered that by moving his chair forward, he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[329]</a></span> +could get within a foot of Claire. His hand slipped +across, touched hers. She darted a startled backward +glance. Her fingers closed tight about his, then restlessly +snuggled inside his palm—and Milt was lost in +enchantment.</p> + +<p>Stately kings of blood-red cloaks and chrysoberyls +malevolent in crowns of ancient and massy gold—the +quick dismaying roll of drums and the shadow of +passing banners below a tower—a woman tall and +misty-veiled and pale with dreams—a world of spirit +where the soul had power over unseen dominions—this +he saw and heard and tasted in the music. What +the actual plot was, or the technique of the singing, he +did not know, but it bore him beyond all reality save +the sweet, sure happiness of Claire's nestling hand.</p> + +<p>He held her fingers so firmly that he could feel the +pulse beat in them.</p> + +<hr class="shr" /> + +<p>In the clamminess of his room, when the enchantment +was gone, he said gravely:</p> + +<p>"How much longer can I keep this up? Sooner or +later I bust loose and smash little Jeff one in the snoot, +and he takes the count, and I'm never allowed to see +Claire again. Turn the roughneck out on his ear. I +s'pose I'm vulgar. I s'pose that fellow Michael in +<i>Youth's Encounter</i> wouldn't talk about snoots. I +don't care, I'll—— If I poke Saxton one—— I'm +not afraid of the kid-glove precinct any more. My<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">[330]</a></span> +brain's as good as theirs, give it a chance. But oh, +they're all against me. And they bust the Athletic +Union's wrestling rule that 'striking, kicking, gouging, +hair-pulling, butting, and strangling will not be allowed.' +How long can I go on being good-natured? +When I do break loose——"</p> + +<p>Slowly, beneath the moral cuff of his dress-shirt, +Milt's fist closed in a brown, broad-knuckled lump, and +came up in the gesture of a right to the jaw. But it +came up only a foot. The hand opened, climbed to +Milt's face, rubbed his temples, while he sighed:</p> + +<p>"Nope. Can't even do that. Bigger game now. +Used to could—used to be able to settle things with +a punch. But I've got to be more—oh, more diplomatic +now. Oh Lord, how lonely I get for Bill McGolwey. +No. That isn't true. I couldn't stand Bill +now. Claire took all that out of me. Where am I, +where am I? Why did I ever get a car that takes a +36 × 6?"</p> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">[331]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXII<br /> +THE CORNFIELD ARISTOCRAT</h2> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">It</span> was an innocent little note from Jeff Saxton; a +polite, humble little note; it said that Jeff had a +card to the Astoria Club, and wouldn't Milt please have +lunch with him? But Milt dropped it on the table, +and he walked round it as though it were a dictagraph +which he'd discovered in the table drawer after happy, +happy, hidden hours at counterfeiting.</p> + +<p>It seemed more dangerous to refuse than to go. He +browned the celebrated new shoes; he pressed the +distinguished new trousers, with a light and quite +unsatisfactory flatiron; he re-re-retied his best spotted +blue bow—it persisted in having the top flaps too short, +but the retying gave him spiritual strength—and he +modestly clumped into the aloof brick portal of the +Astoria Club on time.</p> + +<p>He had never been in a club before.</p> + +<p>He looked at the red tiled floor of the entrance hall; +he stared through the hall into an immense lounge with +the largest and softest chairs in the world, with oil +portraits of distinguished old bucks, and ninety per +cent. of the wealth and power of Seattle pulling its +several mustaches, reading the P.I., and ignoring the +lone intruder out in the hall.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">[332]</a></span>A small Zulu in blue tights and brass buttons glared +at Milt; and a large, soft, suave, insulting young man +demanded, "Yes, sir?"</p> + +<p>"Mr. G-g-geoffrey Saxton?" ventured Milt.</p> + +<p>"Not in, sir." The "sir" sounded like "And you +know it." The flaming guardian retired behind a narrow +section of a bookkeeper's desk and ignored him.</p> + +<p>"I'm to meet him for lunch," Milt forlornly persisted.</p> + +<p>The young man looked up, hurt and annoyed at +finding that the person was still to be dealt with.</p> + +<p>"If you will wait in there?" he groaned.</p> + +<p>Milt sat in there, which was a small blue tapestry +room with hard chairs intended to discourage bill-collectors. +He turned his hat round and round and +round, till he saw Jeff Saxton, slim and straight and +hard as the stick hooked over his arm, sailing into +the hall. He plunged out after him, took refuge with +him from the still unconvinced inspection of the hall-man. +For twenty seconds, he loved Jeff Saxton.</p> + +<p>And Jeff seemed to adore him in turn. He solicitously +led Milt to the hat-checking counter. He +showed Milt the lounge and the billiard room, through +which Milt crept with erect shoulders and easy eyes +and a heart simply paralyzed with fear that one of +these grizzled clubmen with clipped mustaches would +look at him. He coaxed Milt into a grill that was a +cross between the Chinese throne-room and a Viennese<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[333]</a></span> +Weinstube, and he implored his friend Milt to do him +the favor of trying the "very fair" English mutton +chops and potatoes <i>au gratin</i>.</p> + +<p>"I did want to see you again before we go East, +Daggett," he said pleasantly.</p> + +<p>"Th-thanks. When do you go?"</p> + +<p>"I'm trying to get Miss Boltwood to start soon +now. The season is opening in the East. She does like +your fine sturdy West, as I do, but still, when we +think of the exciting new shows opening, and the +dances, and the touch with the great world—— Oh, +it does make one eager to get back."</p> + +<p>"That's so," risked Milt.</p> + +<p>"We, uh—— Daggett—— In fact, I'm going +to call you Milt, as Claire does. You don't know what +a pleasure it has been to have encountered you. +There's a fine keen courage about you Western chaps +that makes a cautious old fogy like me envious. I +shall remember meeting you with a great deal of +pleasure."</p> + +<p>"Th-thanks. Been pleasure meet you."</p> + +<p>"And I know Claire will, too."</p> + +<p>Milt felt that he was being dealt with foully. He +wanted to object to Saxton's acting as agent for Claire +as incompetent, irrelevant, immaterial, and no foundation +laid. But he could not see just where he was +being led, and with Saxton glowing at him as warmly +and greasily as the mutton chops, Milt could only smile<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">[334]</a></span> +wanly, and reflectively feel the table leg to see if it +was loose enough to jerk out in case of need.</p> + +<p>Saxton was being optimistic:</p> + +<p>"In fact, Claire and I both hope that some day when +you've finished your engineering course, we'll see you +in the East. I wonder—— As I say, my dear fellow, +I've taken the greatest fancy to you, and I do hope +you won't think I'm too intimate if I say that I +imagine that even in your charming friendship with +Miss Boltwood, you've probably never learned what +important people the Boltwoods are. I thought I'd tell +you so that you could realize the privilege both you +and I have in knowing them. Henry B. is—while not +a man of any enormous wealth—regarded as one of +the keenest intellects in New York wholesale circles. +But beyond that, he is a scholar, and a man of the +broadest interests. Of course the Boltwoods are too +modest to speak of it, but he was chiefly instrumental +in the establishment of the famous Brooklyn Symphony +Orchestra. And his ancestors clear through—his +father was a federal judge, and his mother's +brother was a general in the Civil War, and afterwards +an ambassador. So you can guess something +of the position Claire holds in that fine, quiet, solid +old Brooklyn set. Henry Ward Beecher himself was +complimented at being asked to dine with the Boltwoods +of his day, and——"</p> + +<p>No, the table leg wouldn't come loose, so it was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_335" id="Page_335">[335]</a></span> +only verbally that the suddenly recovered Milt attacked:</p> + +<p>"Certainly is nice to have one of those old families. +It's something like—— As you say, you and I have +gotten pretty well acquainted along the line, so I guess +I can say it to you—— My father and his folks came +from that same kind of family. Father's dad was a +judge, back in Maine, and in the war, grand-dad was +quite friendly with Grant."</p> + +<p>This tribute of Milt to his grandsire was loyal but +inaccurate. Judge Daggett, who wasn't a judge at all, +but a J. P., had seen General Grant only once, and at +the time the judge had been in company with all the +other privates in the Fourteenth Maine.</p> + +<p>"Dad was a pioneer. He was a doctor. He had to +give up all this easy-going stuff in order to help open +up the West to civilization, but I guess it was worth +it. He used to do the hardest kind of operations, on +kitchen tables, with his driver giving the chloroform. +I'm mighty proud of him. As you say, it's kind of +what you might call inspiring to belong to the old +Pilgrim aristocracy."</p> + +<p>Never before had Milt claimed relation to a group +regarding which his only knowledge was the information +derived from the red school-history to the effect +that they all carried blunderbusses, put people in the +stocks for whistling, and frequently said, "Why don't +you speak for yourself, John?" But he had made his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_336" id="Page_336">[336]</a></span> +boast with a clear eye and a pleasant, superior, calm +smile.</p> + +<p>"Oh! Very interesting," grunted Saxton.</p> + +<p>"Would you like to see grandfather's daguerreotype?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes, yes, uh, thanks, that would be very interesting—— Do +let me see it, when—— Uh, as I +was saying, Claire doubtless has a tremendous social +career before her. So many people expecting her to +marry well. Of course she has a rather unusual combination +of charm and intelligence and—— In fact I +think we may both be glad that——"</p> + +<p>"Yes. That's right. And the best thing about her +is the way she can shake off all the social stuff and go +camping and be a regular human being," Milt +caressed.</p> + +<p>"Um, uh, no doubt, no doubt, though—— Of +course, though, that isn't an inherent part of her. I +fancy she's been rather tired by this long trip, poor +child. Of course she isn't very strong."</p> + +<p>"That's right. Real pluck. And of course she'll +get stronger by hiking. You've never seen her bucking +a dangerous hill—I kind of feel that a person +who hasn't seen her in the wilds doesn't know +her."</p> + +<p>"I don't want to be contradictory, old man, but I +feel on the other hand that no one who has failed to +see her at the Junior League Dances, in a Poiret<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_337" id="Page_337">[337]</a></span> +frock, can know her! Come, come! Don't know how +we drifted into this chorus of praise of Claire! What +I wanted to ask was your opinion of the Pierce-Arrow. +I'm thinking of buying one. Do you think +that——"</p> + +<p>All the way home Milt exulted, "I put it all over +him. I wasn't scared by the 'Don't butt into the +aristocracy, my young friend' stuff. I lied handsome. +But—— Darn it, now I'll have to live up to my +New England aristocracy.... Wonder if my grand-dad's +dad was a hired man or a wood-sawyer?... +Ne' mine; I'm Daggett of Daggett from now on." He +bounded up to his room vaingloriously remarking, +"I'm there with the ancestors. I was brought up in +the handsome city of Schoenstrom, which was founded +by a colony of Vermont Yankees, headed by Herman +Skumautz. I was never allowed to play with the +Dutch kids, and——" He opened the door. "—the +Schoenstrom minister taught me Greek and was my +bosom frien'——"</p> + +<p>He stopped with his heart in his ankles. Lolling +on the bed, grinning, waving a cigarette, was Bill +McGolwey, proprietor of the Old Home Lunch, of +Schoenstrom, Minnesota.</p> + +<p>"Wwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwhy +where the heck did you come from?" stammered the +deposed aristocrat to his bosom friend Bill.</p> + +<p>"You old lemon-pie-faced, lollygagging, flap-footed,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_338" id="Page_338">[338]</a></span> +crab-nosed son of misery, gee, but it's good to see you, +Milt!"</p> + +<p>Bill was off the bed, wringing Milt's hand with +simple joy, with perfect faith that in finding his friend +all the troubles of life were over. And Milt was +gloomily discovering the art of diplomacy. Bill was +his friend, yes, but——</p> + +<p>It was hard enough to carry his own self.</p> + +<p>He pictured Jeff Saxton leering at the door, and +while he pounded Bill's shoulder, and called him the +name which, west of Chicago, is the token of hatred +and of extreme gladness at meeting, he discovered that +some one had stolen his stomach and left a piece of +ice in its place.</p> + +<p>They settled down on bed and chair, Bill's ears red +with joy, while Milt demanded:</p> + +<p>"How the deuce did you get here?"</p> + +<p>"Well, tell you, old hoss. Schoenstrom got so darn +lonely after you left, and when Ben and Heinie got +your address and bought the garage, think's I, lez go +off on a little bum."</p> + +<p>Milt was realizing—and hating himself for realizing—that +Bill's face was dirty, his hair linty, the bottoms +of his trousers frayed masses of mud, while Bill +chuckled:</p> + +<p>"I figured out maybe I could get a job here in a +restaurant, and you and me could room together. I +sold out my good will in the Old Home Lunch for a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_339" id="Page_339">[339]</a></span> +hundred bucks. I was going to travel swell, riding the +cushions. But Pete Swanson wanted me to go down +to the Cities first, and we run into some pretty swift +travelers in Minneapolis, and a couple of girls—saaaaaaay, +kid, some class!"</p> + +<p>Bill winked, and Milt—Milt was rather sick. He +knew Bill's conception of class in young women. Was +this the fellow he had liked so well? These the ideas +which a few months ago he had taken as natural and +extremely amusing?</p> + +<p>"And I got held up in an alley off Washington +Avenue, and they got the last twenty bones off'n me, +and I was flatter 'n a pancake. So I says 'ish +kabibble,' and I sneaks onto the blind baggage, and +bums my way West. You'd 'a' died laughing to seen +me throwing my feet for grub. Oh, I'm some panhandler! +There was one <i>Frau</i> sicked her dog onto me, +and I kicked him in the jaw and—— Oh, it was one +swell hike."</p> + +<p>Milt was trying to ignore the voice that was raging, +"And now he expects to live on me, after throwing +his own money away. The waster! The hobo! He'll +expect to meet Claire—— I'd kill him before I'd +let him soil her by looking at her. Him and his classy +girls!" Milt tried to hear only the other inner voice, +which informed him, "He looks at you so trustingly. +He'd give you his shirt, if you needed it—and he +wouldn't make you ask for it!"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_340" id="Page_340">[340]</a></span>Milt tried to be hearty: "What're you going to do, +old kid?"</p> + +<p>"Well, the first thing I'm going to do is to borrow +ten iron-men and a pair of pants."</p> + +<p>"You bet! Here she is. Haven't got any extra +pants. Tell you: Here's another five, and you can +get the pants at the store in the next block, this side +of the street. Hustle along now and get 'em!" He +chuckled at Bill; he patted his arm; he sought to hurry +him out.... He had to be alone, to think.</p> + +<p>But Bill kissed the fifteen dollars, carelessly rammed +it into his pocket, crawled back on the bed, yawned, +"What's the rush? Gosh, I'm sleepy. Say, Milt, +whadyuh think of me and you starting a lunch-room +here together? You got enough money out of the +garage——"</p> + +<p>"Oh no, noooo, gee, I'd like to, Bill, but you see, +well, I've got to hold onto what little I've got so I can +get through engineering school."</p> + +<p>"Sure, but you could cash in on a restaurant—you +could work evenings in the dump, and there'd be a lot +of city sports hanging around, and we'd have the time +of our lives."</p> + +<p>"No, I—— I study, evenings. And I—— The +fact is, Bill, I've met a lot of nice fellows at the university +and I kind of go around with them."</p> + +<p>"Aw, how d'you get that way? Rats, you don't +want to go tagging after them Willy-boys. Damn<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_341" id="Page_341">[341]</a></span> +dirty snobs. And the girls are worse. I tell you, +Milt, these hoop-te-doodle society Janes may look all +right to hicks like us, but on the side they raise more +hell than any milliner's trimmer from Chi that ever +vamped a rube burg."</p> + +<p>"What do you know about them?"</p> + +<p>"Now don't get sore. I'm telling you. I don't like +to see any friend of mine make a fool of himself hanging +around with a bunch that despises him because he +ain't rich, that's all. Met any of the high-toned +skirts?"</p> + +<p>"Yes—I—<i>have</i>!"</p> + +<p>"Trot 'em up and lemme give 'em the once-over."</p> + +<p>"We—we'll see about it. Now I got to go to a +mathematics recitation, Bill. You make yourself comfortable, +and I'll be back at five."</p> + +<p>Milt did not have to go to a recitation. He marched +out with briskness in his step, and a book under his +arm; but when he reached the corner, the briskness +proved to be spurious, and the mathematics book +proved to be William Rose Benét's <i>Merchants of +Cathay</i>, which Claire had given him in the Yellowstone, +and which he had rescued from the wrecked +bug.</p> + +<p>He stood staring at it. He opened it with unhappy +tenderness. He had been snatched from the world of +beautiful words and serene dignity, of soaring mountains +and companionship with Claire in the radiant<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_342" id="Page_342">[342]</a></span> +morning, back to the mud and dust of Schoenstrom, +from the opera to "city sports" in a lunch-room! +He hated Bill McGolwey and his sneering assumption +that Milt belonged in the filth with him. And +he hated himself for not being enough of a genius to +combine Bill McGolwey and Claire Boltwood. But +not once, in his maelstrom of worry on that street +corner, did he expect Claire to like Bill. Through all +his youthful agonizing, he had enough common sense +to know that though Claire might conquer a mountain +pass, she could never be equal to the social demands +of Schoenstrom and Bill McGolwey.</p> + +<p>He wandered for an hour and came back to find +that, in a "dry" city which he had never seen before, +the crafty Bill had obtained a quart of Bourbon, and +was in a state of unsteady beatitude. He wanted, he +announced, to dance.</p> + +<p>Milt got him into the community bathtub, and +soused him under, but Bill's wet body was slippery, +and Bill's merry soul was all for frolicsome gamboling, +and he slid out of Milt's grasp, he sloshed around +in the tub, he sprinkled Milt's sacred good suit with +soapy water, and escaped, and in the costume of +Adam he danced orientally in Milt's room, till he was +seized with sleepiness and cosmic grief, and retired to +Milt's bed in tears and nothing else.</p> + +<p>The room dimmed, grew dark. The street lamps +outside sent a wan, wavery gleam into the room.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_343" id="Page_343">[343]</a></span> +Evening crowds went by, and in a motion-picture +theater a banging piano struck up. Bill breathed in +choking snorts. Milt sat unmoving, feeling very old, +very tired, too dumbly unhappy to be frightened of +the dreadful coming hour when Claire and Jeff should +hear of Bill, and discover Milt's real world.</p> + +<p>He was not so romantically loyal, not so inhumanly +heroic, that it can truthfully be reported that he never +thought of getting rid of Bill. He did think of it, +again and again. But always he was touched by Bill's +unsuspecting trust, and shook his head, and sank again +into the fog.</p> + +<p>What was the use of trying to go ahead? Wasn't +he, after all, merely a Bill McGolwey himself?</p> + +<p>If he was, he wouldn't inflict himself on Claire.</p> + +<p>For several minutes he gave up forever the zest of +climbing.</p> + +<p>When Bill awoke, brightly solicitous about the rest +of the quart of Bourbon, and bouncingly ready to "go +out and have a time," Milt loafed about the streets +with him, showing him the city. He dully cut his +classes, next morning, and took Bill to the wharves.</p> + +<p>It was late in the afternoon, when they were lounging +in the room, and Bill was admiring his new pants—he +boasted of having bought them for three dollars, +and pointed out that Milt had been a "galoot" to +spend ten dollars for shoes—that some one knocked +at the door. Sleepily expectant of his landlady, Milt<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_344" id="Page_344">[344]</a></span> +opened it on Miss Claire Boltwood, Mr. and Mrs. +Eugene Gilson, and Mr. Geoffrey Saxton.</p> + +<p>Saxton calmly looked past him, at Bill, smiled +slightly, and condescended, "I thought we ought to +call on you, so we've dropped in to beg for tea."</p> + +<p>Bill had stopped midway in scratching his head to +gape at Claire. Claire returned the look, stared at +Bill's frowsy hair, his red wrists, his wrinkled, grease-stained +coat, his expression of impertinent stupidity. +Then she glanced questioningly at Milt, who choked:</p> + +<p>"Oh yes, yes, sure, glad see you, come in, get some +tea, so glad see you, come in——"</p> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_345" id="Page_345">[345]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXIII<br /> +TOOTH-MUG TEA</h2> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">"My</span> friend Mr. McGolwey—I knew him in +Schoenstrom—come on to Seattle for a while. +Bill, these are some people I met along the road," Milt +grumbled.</p> + +<p>"Glad to meet 'em. Have a chair. Have two +chairs! Say, Milt, y'ought to have more chairs if +you're going to have a bunch of swells coming to call +on you. Ha, ha, ha! Say, I guess I better pike out +and give the folks a chance to chin with you," Bill +fondly offered.</p> + +<p>"Oh, sit down," Milt snapped at him.</p> + +<p>They all sat down, four on the bed; and Milt's inner +ear heard a mute snicker from the Gilsons and Saxton. +He tried to talk. He couldn't. Bill looked at +him and, perceiving the dumbness, gallantly helped +out:</p> + +<p>"So you met the kid on the road, eh? Good scout, +Milt is. We always used to say at Schoenstrom that +he was the best darn hand at fixing a flivver in seven +townships."</p> + +<p>"So you knew Mr. Daggett at home? Now isn't +that nice," said Mrs. Gilson.</p> + +<p>"<i>Knew</i> him? Saaaaay, Milt and I was brung up<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_346" id="Page_346">[346]</a></span> +together. Why, him and I have bummed around together, +and worked on farms, summers, and fished for +bull-heads—— Ever catch a bull-head? Damnedest +slipperiest fish you ever saw, and got horns that sting +the stuffin's out of you and—— Say, I wonder if +Milt's told you about the time we had at a barn-dance +once? There was a bunch of hicks there, and I +says, 'Say, kid, lez puncture their tires, and hide back +of the manure pile, and watch the fun when they come +out.' I guess maybe I was kind of stewed a little, tell +the truth, but course Milt he don't drink much, hardly +at all, nice straight kid if I do say so——"</p> + +<p>"Bill!" Milt ordered. "We must have some tea. +Here's six-bits. You run down to the corner grocery +and get some tea and a little cream. Oh, you better +buy three-four cups, too. Hustle now, son!"</p> + +<p>"Attaboy! Yours to command, ladies and gents, +like the fellow says!" Bill boomed delightedly. He +winked at Jeff Saxton, airily spun his broken hat on +his dirty forefinger, and sauntered out.</p> + +<p>"Charming fellow. A real original," crooned Mrs. +Gilson.</p> + +<p>"Did he know your friend Mr. Pinky?" asked +Saxton.</p> + +<p>Before Milt could answer, Claire rose from the +bed, inspected the Gilsons and Jeff with cold dislike, +and said quietly to Milt, "The poor dear thing—he +was dreadfully embarrassed. It's so good of you to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_347" id="Page_347">[347]</a></span> +be nice to him. I believe in being loyal to your old +friends."</p> + +<p>"Oh, so do I!" babbled Mrs. Gilson. "It's just +too splendid. And <i>we</i> must do something for him. +I'm going to invite Mr. Daggett and Mr.—Mr. McGollups, +was it?—to dinner this evening. I do want to +hear him tell about your boyhood. It must have been +so interesting."</p> + +<p>"It was," mused Milt. "It was poor and miserable. +We had to work hard—we had to fight for whatever +education we got—we had no one to teach us +courtesy."</p> + +<p>"Oh now, with your fine old doctor father? Surely +he was an inspiration?" Jeff didn't, this time, trouble +to hide the sneer.</p> + +<p>"Yes. He was. He gave up the chance to be a +rich loafer in order to save farmers' babies for fees +that he never got."</p> + +<p>"I'm sure he did. I wish I'd known him. We +need to know men like that in this pink-frosting playing +at living we have in cities," Claire said sweetly—not +to Milt but to Jeff.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Gilson had ignored them, waiting with the +patience of a cat at a mouse-hole, and she went on, +"But you haven't said you'd come, this evening. +Do say you will. I don't suppose Mr. McGollups will +care to dress for dinner?"</p> + +<p>With saccharin devotion Milt yearned back, "No,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_348" id="Page_348">[348]</a></span> +Mrs. Gilson. No. Mr. McGolwey won't care to +dress. He's eccentric."</p> + +<p>"But you'll make him come?"</p> + +<p>Milt was tactfully beginning to refuse when Gene +Gilson at last exploded, turned purple, covered his dripping, +too-red lips with his handkerchief.</p> + +<p>Then, abruptly, Milt hurled at Mrs. Gilson, "All +right. We'll come. Bill'll be awfully funny. He's +never been out of a jerkwater burg in his life, hardly. +He's an amusing cuss. He thinks I'm smart! He +loves me like a dog. Oh, he's rich! Ha, ha, ha!"</p> + +<p>Milt might have gone on ... if he had, Mr. and +Mrs. Gilson would have gone away, much displeased. +But Bill arrived, with some of the worst tea in the +world, and four cups tastefully done in cupids' heads +and much gilt.</p> + +<p>Milt made tea, ignoring them, while Bill entertained +the Gilsons and Saxtons with Rabelaisian stories of +threshing-time when shirts prickly with chaff and +gritty with dust stuck to sweat-dripping backs; of the +"funny thing" of Milt and Bill being hired to move +a garbage-pile and "swiping" their employer's +"mushmelons"; of knotting shirts at the swimming-hole +so that the bawling youngsters had to "chaw +beef"; of drinking beer in the livery-stable at Melrose; +of dropping the water-pitcher from a St. Klopstock +hotel window upon the head of the "constabule" and +escaping from him across the lean-to roof.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_349" id="Page_349">[349]</a></span>Mrs. Gilson encouraged him; Bill sat with almost +closed eyes, glorying in the saga of small-town life; +Saxton and Gilson did not conceal their contemptuous +grins.</p> + +<p>But Claire—— After nervously rubbing the tips of +her thumbs with flickering agitated fingers, she had +paid no attention to Bill and the revelation of Milt's +rustic life; she had quietly gone to Milt, to help him +prepare the scanty tea.</p> + +<p>She whispered, "Never mind, dear. I don't care. +It was all twice as much fun as being wheeled in lacy +prams by cranky nurses, as Jeff and I were. But I +know how you feel. Are you ashamed of having been +a prairie pirate?"</p> + +<p>"No, I'm not! We were wild kids—we raised a lot +of Cain—but I'm glad we did."</p> + +<p>"So am I. I couldn't stand it if you were ashamed. +Listen to me, and remember little Claire's words of +wisdom. These fools are trying—oh, they're so obvious!—they're +trying to make me feel that the prim +Miss Boltwood of Brooklyn Heights is a stranger to +you. Well, they're succeeding in making me a +stranger—to them!"</p> + +<p>"Claire! Dear! You don't mind Bill?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. I do. And so do you. You've grown away +from him."</p> + +<p>"I don't know but—— Today has been quite a +test."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_350" id="Page_350">[350]</a></span>"Yes. It has. Because if I can stand your friend +Mr. McGolwey——"</p> + +<p>"Then you do care!"</p> + +<p>"Perhaps. And if I think that he's, oh, not much +good, and I remember that for a long time you just +had him to play with, then I'm all the more anxious +to make it up to you."</p> + +<p>"Don't be sorry for me! I can't stand that! After +all, it was a good town, and good folks——"</p> + +<p>"No! No! I'm not sorry for you! I just mean, +you couldn't have had so terribly much fun, after you +were eighteen or so. Schoenstrom must have been +a little dull, after very many years there. This stuff +about the charm of backwoods villages—the people +that write it seem to take jolly good care to stay in +Long Island suburbs!"</p> + +<p>"Claire!" He was whispering desperately, "The +tea's most done. Oh, my dear. I'm crazy with this +puttering around, trying to woo you and having to +woo the entire Gilson tribe. Let's run away!"</p> + +<p>"No; first I'm going to convince them that you +are—what I know you are."</p> + +<p>"But you can't."</p> + +<p>"Huh! You wait! I've thought of the most beautiful, +beastly cruel plan for the reduction of social +obesity——"</p> + +<p>Then she was jauntily announcing, "Tea, my dears. +Jeff, you get the tooth-mug. Isn't this jolly!"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_351" id="Page_351">[351]</a></span>"Yes. Oh yes. Very jolly!" Jeff was thoroughly +patronizing, but she didn't look offended. She made +them drink the acid tea, and taste the chalk-like bread +and butter sandwiches. She coaxed Bill to go on +with his stories, and when the persistent Mrs. Gilson +again asked the pariahs to come to dinner, Claire +astonished Milt, and still more astonished Mrs. Gilson, +by begging, "Oh yes, please do come, Milt."</p> + +<p>He consented, savagely.</p> + +<p>"But first," Claire added to Mrs. Gilson, "I want +us to take the boys to—— Oh, I have the bulliest +idea. Come, everybody. We're going riding."</p> + +<p>"Uh, where——?" hinted Mr. Gilson.</p> + +<p>"That's my secret. Come!"</p> + +<p>Claire pranced to the door, herded all of them down +to the limousine, whispered an address to the chauffeur.</p> + +<p>Milt didn't care much for that ride. Bill was somewhat +too evidently not accustomed to limousines. He +wiped his shoes, caked with red mud, upon the seat-cushions, +and apologized perspiringly. He said, "Gee +whillikens, that's a dandy idee, telephone to bawl the +shuffer out with," and "Are them flowers real, the +bokay in the vase?"</p> + +<p>But the Gilsons and Jeff Saxton were happy about +it all—till the car turned from a main thoroughfare +upon a muddy street of shacks that clung like goats to +the sides of a high cut, a street unchanged from the +pioneer days of Seattle.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_352" id="Page_352">[352]</a></span>"Good heavens, Claire, you aren't taking us to see +Aunt Hatty, are you?" wailed Mrs. Gilson.</p> + +<p>"Oh yes, indeed. I knew the boys would like to +meet her."</p> + +<p>"No, really, I don't think——"</p> + +<p>"Eva, my soul, Jeff and you planned our tea +party today, and assured me I'd be so interested in +Milt's bachelor apartment—— By the way, I'd been +up there already, so it wasn't entirely a surprise. It's +my turn to lead." She confided to Milt, "Dear old +Aunt Hatty is related to all of us. She's Gene's aunt, +and my fourth cousin, and I think she's distantly related +to Jeff. She came West early, and had a hard +time, but she's real Brooklyn Heights—and she belongs +to Gramercy Park and North Washington +Square and Rittenhouse Square and Back Bay, too, +though she has got out of touch a little. So I wanted +you to meet her."</p> + +<p>Milt wondered what unperceived bag of cement had +hardened the faces of Saxton and the Gilsons.</p> + +<p>Silent save for polite observations of Claire upon +tight skirts and lumbering, the merry company reached +the foot of a lurching flight of steps that scrambled up +a clay bank to a cottage like a hen that has set too long. +Milt noticed that Mrs. Gilson made efforts to remain +in the limousine when it stopped, and he caught Gilson's +mutter to his wife, "No, it's Claire's turn. Be +a sport, Eva."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_353" id="Page_353">[353]</a></span>Claire led them up the badly listed steps to an unpainted +porch on which sat a little old lady, very neat, +very respectable, very interested, and reflectively holding +in one ivory hand a dainty handkerchief and a +black clay pipe.</p> + +<p>"Hello, Claire, my dear. You've broken the relatives' +record—you've called twice in less than a year," +said the little old lady.</p> + +<p>"How do you do, Aunt Harriet," remarked Mrs. +Gilson, with great lack of warmth.</p> + +<p>"Hello, Eva. Sit down on the edge of the porch. +Those chickens have made it awful dirty, though, +haven't they? Bring out some chairs. There's two +chairs that don't go down under you—often." Aunt +Harriet was very cheerful.</p> + +<p>The group lugubriously settled in a circle upon an +assemblage of wind-broken red velvet chairs and +wooden stools. They resembled the aftermath of a +funeral on a damp day.</p> + +<p>Claire was the cheerful undertaker, Mrs. Gilson the +grief-stricken widow.</p> + +<p>Claire waved at Milt and conversed with Aunt Hatty +in a high brisk voice: "This is the nice boy I met +on the road that I think I told you about, Cousin +Hatty."</p> + +<p>The little old lady screwed up the delicate skin +about her eyes, examined Milt, and cackled, "Boy, +there's something wrong here. You don't belong with<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_354" id="Page_354">[354]</a></span> +my family. Why, you look like an American. You +haven't got an imitation monocle, and I bet you can't +talk with a New York-London accent. Why, Claire, +I'm ashamed of you for bringing a human being into +the Boltwood-Gilson-Saxton tomb and expecting——"</p> + +<p>Then was the smile of Mrs. Gilson lost forever. +It was simultaneously torpedoed, mined, scuttled, and +bombed. It went to the bottom without a ripple, while +Mrs. Gilson snapped, "Aunt Hatty, please don't be +vulgar."</p> + +<p>"Me?" croaked the little old lady. She puffed at +her pipe, and dropped her elbows on her knees. "My, +ain't it hard to please some folks."</p> + +<p>"Cousin Hatty, I want Milt to know about our +families. I love the dear old stories," Claire begged +prettily.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Gilson snarled. "Claire, really——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, do shut up, Eva, and don't be so bossy!" +yelped the dear little old lady, in sudden and dismaying +rage. "I'll talk if I want to. Have they been +bullying you, Claire? Or your boy? I tell you, boy, +these families are fierce. I was brought up in +Brooklyn—went through all the schools—used to be +able to misplay the piano and mispronounce French +with the best of 'em. Then Gene's pa and I came +West together—he had an idea he'd get rich robbing +the Injuns of their land. And we went broke. I took +in washing. I learned a lot. I learned a Gilson was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_355" id="Page_355">[355]</a></span> +just the same common stuff as a red-shirt miner, when +he was up against it. But Gene's pa succeeded—there +was something about practically stealing a fur schooner—but +I never was one to tattle on my kin. Anyway, +by the time Gene come along, his pa was rich, and that +means aristocratic.</p> + +<p>"This aristocracy west of Pittsburgh is just twice +as bad as the snobbery in Boston or New York, because +back there, the families have had their wealth +long enough—some of 'em got it by stealing real +estate in 1820, and some by selling Jamaica rum and +niggers way back before the Revolutionary War—they've +been respectable so long that they know mighty +well and good that nobody except a Britisher is going +to question their blue blood—and oh my, what good +blueing third-generation money does make. But out +here in God's Country, the marquises of milling and +the barons of beef are still uneasy. Even their pretty +women, after going to the best hair-dressers and +patronizing the best charities, sometimes get scared +lest somebody think they haven't either brains or +breeding.</p> + +<p>"So they're nasty to all low pussons like you and +me, to make sure we understand how important they +are. But lands, I know 'em, boy. I'm kept pensioned +up here, out of the way, but I read the social notes in +the papers and I chuckle—— When there's a big reception +and I read about Mrs. Vogeland's pearls, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_356" id="Page_356">[356]</a></span> +her beautiful daughter-in-law, I remember how she +used to run a boarding-house for miners——</p> + +<p>"Well, I guess it's just as shoddy in the East if you +go far enough back. Claire, you're a nice comforting +body, and I hate to say it, but the truth is, your +great-grandfather was an hostler, and made his first +money betting on horses. Now, my, I oughtn't to tell +that. Do you mind, dearie?"</p> + +<p>"Not a bit. Isn't it delightful that this is such a +democratic country, with no castes," said Claire.</p> + +<p>At this, the first break in the little old lady's undammable +flood, Mrs. Gilson sprang up, yammering, +"The rest of you may stay as long as you like, but +if I'm to be home in time to dress for dinner——"</p> + +<p>"Yes, and I must be going," babbled Saxton.</p> + +<p>Milt noted that his lower lip showed white tooth-marks.</p> + +<p>It must be admitted that all of them rather ignored +the little old lady for a moment. Milt was apologetically +hinting, "I don't really think Bill and I'd better +come to dinner this evening, Mrs. Gilson. Thanks a +lot but—— It's kind of sudden."</p> + +<p>Claire again took charge. "Not at all, Milt. Of +course you're coming. It was Eva herself who invited +you. I'm sure she'll be delighted."</p> + +<p>"Charmed," said Mrs. Gilson, with the expression +of one who has swallowed castor oil and doubts the +unity of the universe.</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_357" id="Page_357">[357]</a></span>There was a lack of ease about the farewells to Aunt +Harriet. As they all turned away she beckoned Milt +and murmured, "Did I raise the dickens? I tried to. +It's the only solace besides smoking that a moral old +lady can allow herself, after she gets to be eighty-two +and begins to doubt everything they used to teach her. +Come and see me, boy. Now get out, and, boy, beat +up Gene Gilson. Don't be scared of his wife's hoity-toity +ways. Just sail in."</p> + +<p>"I will," said Milt.</p> + +<p>He had one more surprise before he reached the +limousine.</p> + +<p>Bill McGolwey, who had sat listening to everything +and scratching his cheek in a puzzled way, seized Milt's +sleeve and rumbled:</p> + +<p>"Good-by, old hoss. I'm not going to butt in on +your game and get you in Dutch. Gosh, I never supposed +you had enough class to mingle with elittys like +this gang, but I know when I'm in wrong. You were +too darn decent to kick me out. Do it myself. You're +best friend I ever had and—— Good luck, old man! +God bless you!"</p> + +<p>Bill was gone, running, stumbling, fleeing past Aunt +Harriet's cottage, off into a sandy hilltop vacancy. +The last Milt saw of him was when, on the skyline, +Bill stopped for a glance back, and seemed to be digging +his knuckles into his eyes.</p> + +<p>Then Milt turned resolutely, marched down the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_358" id="Page_358">[358]</a></span> +stairs, said to his hosts with a curious quietness, +"Thank you for asking me to dinner, but I'm afraid +I can't come. Claire, will you walk a few blocks with +me?"</p> + +<p>During the half minute it had taken to descend the +steps, Milt had reflected, with an intensity which +forgot Bill, that he had been selfish; that he had +thought only of the opinion of these "nice people" +regarding himself, instead of understanding that it +was his duty to save Claire from their enervating +niceness. Not that he phrased it quite in this way. +What he had been muttering was:</p> + +<p>"Rotten shame—me so scared of folks' clothes that +I don't stand up to 'em and keep 'em from smothering +Claire. Lord, it would be awful if she settled down to +being a Mrs. Jeff Saxton. Got to save her—not for +myself—for her."</p> + +<p>It may have been Aunt Harriet, it may have been +Milt's resolution, but Mrs. Gilson answered almost +meekly, "Well, if you think—— Would you like to +walk, Claire?"</p> + +<p>As he tramped off with Claire, Milt demanded, +"Glad to escape?"</p> + +<p>"Yes, and I'm glad you refused dinner. It really +has been wearing, this trial by food."</p> + +<p>"This is the last time I'll dare to meet the Gilsons."</p> + +<p>"And I'll have to be going back East. I hope the +Gilsons will forgive me, some day."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_359" id="Page_359">[359]</a></span>"I'm afraid you didn't win them over by Aunt +Hatty!"</p> + +<p>"No. They're probably off me for life. Oh, these +horrible social complications—worse than any real +danger—fire or earthquake——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, these complications—they don't exist! We +just make 'em, like we make rules for a card game. +What the deuce do we care about the opinions of people +we don't like? And who appointed these people to a +fixed social position? Did the president make Saxton +High Cockalorum of Dress-Suits or something? +Why, these are just folks, the same as kings and coal-heavers. +There's no army we've got to fight. There's +just you and me—you and I—and if we stick together, +then we have all society, we <i>are</i> all society!"</p> + +<p>"Ye-es, but, Milt dear, I don't want to be an outcast."</p> + +<p>"You won't be. In the long run, if you don't take +these aristocrats seriously, they'll be all the more impressed +by you."</p> + +<p>"No. That sounds cheering, in stories and these +optimistic editorials in the magazines, but it isn't true. +And you don't know how pleasant it is to be In. I've +always been more or less on the inside, and thought +outsiders dreadful. But—— Oh, I don't care! I +don't care! With you—I'm happy. That's all I know +and all I want to know. I've just grown up. I've +just learned the greatest wisdom—to know when I'm<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_360" id="Page_360">[360]</a></span> +happy. But, Milt dear—— I say this because I love +you. Yes, I do love you. No, don't kiss me. Yes, +it is too—— It's <i>far</i> too public. And I want to talk +seriously. You can't have any idea how strong social +distinctions are. Don't despise them just because you +don't know them."</p> + +<p>"No. I won't. I'll learn. Probably America will +get into the war. I'll be an engineering officer. I'll +learn this social dope from the college-boy officers. +And I'll come to Brooklyn with shoulder-straps and +bells on and—— Will you be waiting?"</p> + +<p>"Oh—yes—— But, Milt! If the war comes, you +must be very careful not to get shot!"</p> + +<p>"All right, if, you insist. Good Lord, Claire. I +don't know what put it into my head but—— Do you +realize that a miracle has happened? We're no longer +Miss Boltwood and a fellow named Daggett. We +have been, even when we've liked each other, up to +today. Always there's been a kind of fence between +us. We had to explain and defend ourselves and +scrap—— But now we're <i>us</i>, and the rest of the +world has disappeared, and——"</p> + +<p>"And nothing else matters," said Claire.</p> + +<hr /><p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_361" id="Page_361">[361]</a></span></p> +<h2>CHAPTER XXXIV<br /> +THE BEGINNING OF A STORY</h2> + +<p class="cap"><span class="dcap">It</span> was the farewell to Claire and Jeff Saxton, a +picnic in the Cascades, near Snoqualmie Falls—a +decent and decidedly Milt-less fiesta. Mrs. Gilson was +going to show Claire that they were just as hardy +adventurers as that horrid Daggett person. So she +didn't take the limousine, but merely the seven-passenger +Locomobile with the special body.</p> + +<p>They were ever so rough and wild. They had no +maid. The chauffeur was absolutely the only help to +the Gilsons, Claire, Jeff, and the temporarily and ejaculatorily +nature-loving Mrs. Betz in the daring task of +setting out two folding camp-tables, covering them +with a linen cloth, and opening the picnic basket. +Claire had to admit that she wished that she could +steal the picnic basket for Milt. There were vacuum +bottles of hot coffee. There were sandwiches of +anchovy and <i>paté de foie gras</i>. There were cream +cakes with almonds hidden in the suave cream, and +there was a chicken salad with huge chunks of pure +white meat wallowing in a sea of mayonnaise.</p> + +<p>When the gorging was done and the cigarettes +brought out (the chauffeur passed a spirit lamp), +they stretched on rubber blankets, and groaned a little,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_362" id="Page_362">[362]</a></span> +and spoke well of nature and the delights of roughing +it.</p> + +<p>"What is it? What's wrong? They're so—oh, so +polite. They don't mean what they say and they don't +dare to say what they mean. Is that it?" worried +Claire.</p> + +<p>She started. She discovered that she was looking +at a bristle of rope-colored hair and a grin projected +from the shelter of a manzanita bush.</p> + +<p>"For the——" she gasped. She was too startled to +be able to decide what was for-the. She spoke judiciously +to Jeff Saxton about Upper Montclair, the +subway, and tennis. She rose to examine the mountains, +strolled away, darted down a gully, and pounced +on Milt Daggett with:</p> + +<p>"How in heaven's name——"</p> + +<p>"Found out where you-all were going. Look! +Got a bug! Rented it. Come on! Let's duck! Drive +back with me!" At the end of the gully was a new +Teal bug, shinier than the ancient lost chariot, but +equally gay and uncomfortable.</p> + +<p>"Can't. Like to, but—— Be awfully rude to them. +Won't do that—not more than is good for their souls—even +for you. Now don't be sulky."</p> + +<p>"I won't. Nev' be sulky again, because you're +crazy about me, and I don't have to be sulky."</p> + +<p>"Oh, I am, am I! Good heavens, the inconceivable +conceit of the child!"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_363" id="Page_363">[363]</a></span>She turned her back. He darted to her, caught her +hands behind her, kissed her hair, and whispered, +"You are!"</p> + +<p>"I am not!"</p> + +<p>"Well then, you're not. Lord, you're sweet! Your +hair smells like cinnamon and clean kittens. You'd +rather go bumping off in my flivver than sailing in that +big Loco they've got there."</p> + +<p>"Yes," defiantly, "I would, and I'm ashamed of +myself. I'm a throw-back to my horrid ancestor, the +betting hostler."</p> + +<p>"Probably. I'm a throw-back to my ancestor the +judge. I'll train you to meet my fine friends."</p> + +<p>"Well—upon—my—word—I—— Oh, do stop +being idiotic. We talk like children. You reduce me +to the rank of a gibbering schoolgirl. And I like it! +It's so—oh, I don't know—so darn human, I suppose. +Now hurry—kiss me, and get out, before they suspect."</p> + +<p>"Listen."</p> + +<p>"Yes?"</p> + +<p>"I'll accidentally meet your car along the road. +Invite you to ride. All right?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. Do. Oh, we <i>are</i> two forlorn babes in the +woods! G'-by."</p> + +<p>She sauntered back to the picnic, and observed, +"What is that purple flower up on the mountain side?"</p> + +<p>The big car was sedately purring back when it was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_364" id="Page_364">[364]</a></span> +insulted by an intermediate host of a machine that +came jumping out of a side road. The vulgar driver +hailed them with uncouth howling. The Gilsons' +chauffeur stopped, annoyed.</p> + +<p>"Why, hello folks," bawled the social bandit.</p> + +<p>"Oh. How do you do," refuted Mrs. Gilson.</p> + +<p>Jeff Saxton turned a ripe purple.</p> + +<p>"How do you like my new bug, Claire? Awful +little object. But I can make fifty an hour. Come and +try it, Claire, can't you?"</p> + +<p>"Why——" Claire was obviously shocked by the +impropriety of the suggestion. She looked at Mrs. +Gilson, who was breathing as though she was just +going under the ether. Claire said doubtfully, +"Well—— If you can get me right back to the +house——"</p> + +<p>"Sure," agreed Milt.</p> + +<p>When the Loco was gone, Milt drove the bug to +the side of the road, yanked up the emergency brake, +and carefully kissed the girl who was snuggled down +into the absurd low tin-sided seat.</p> + +<p>"Do we have to get back soon?" he begged.</p> + +<p>"Oh, I don't care if we never get back. Let's shoot +up into the mountains. Side road. Let's pretend +we're driving across the continent again."</p> + +<p>Firs dashing by—rocks in the sunshine—clouds +jaunty beyond the inviting mouth of a mountain pass—even +the ruts and bumps and culverts—she seemed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_365" id="Page_365">[365]</a></span> +a part of them all. In the Gilsons' huge cars she had +been shut off from the road, but in this tiny bug, so +close to earth, she recovered the feeling of struggle, +of triumph over difficulties, of freedom unbounded. +And she could be herself, good or bad, ignorant or +wise, with this boy beside her. All of which she +expressed in the most eloquent speech she had ever +uttered, namely:</p> + +<p>"Oh, <i>Milt</i>——!"</p> + +<p>And, to herself, "Golly, it's such a relief not to have +to try to be gracious and aphoristic and repartistic +and everything with Jeff."</p> + +<p>And, "But I wonder if I am aphoristic and subtle? +I wonder if when she gets the rice-powder off, Claire +isn't a lot more like Milt than she thought?"</p> + +<p>And, aloud again, "Oh, this is——"</p> + +<p>"Yump. It sure is," Milt agreed.</p> + +<p>They had turned from a side-road into a side-side-road. +They crossed an upland valley. The fall rains +had flooded a creek till it had cut across the road, +washed through the thin gravel, left across the road a +shallow violent stream. Milt stopped abruptly at its +margin.</p> + +<p>"Here's where we turn back, I guess," he sighed.</p> + +<p>"Oh no! Can't we get across? It's only a couple +of feet deep, and gravel bottom," insisted the restored +adventurer.</p> + +<p>"Yes, but look at the steep bank. Never get up it."</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_366" id="Page_366">[366]</a></span>"I don't care. Let's try it! We can woggle around +and dig it out somehow. I bet you two-bits we can," +said the delicate young woman whom Mrs. Gilson was +protecting.</p> + +<p>"All right. In she goes!"</p> + +<p>The bug went in—shot over the bank, dipped down +till the little hood sloped below them as though they +were looping the loop, struck the rushing water with +a splash which hurled yellow drops over Claire's rose +jersey suit, lumbered ahead, struck the farther bank, +pawed at it feebly, rose two inches, slipped back, and +sat there with the gurgling water all around it, turned +into a motor-boat.</p> + +<p>"No can do," grunted Milt. "Scared?"</p> + +<p>"Nope. Love it! This is a real camp—the brush +on the bank, and the stream—listen to it chuckle under +the running-board."</p> + +<p>"Do you like to camp with me?"</p> + +<p>"Love it."</p> + +<p>"Say! Gee! Never thought—— Claire! Got +your transportation back East?"</p> + +<p>"My ticket? Yes. Why?"</p> + +<p>"Well, I'm sure you can turn it in and get a refund. +So that's all right."</p> + +<p>"Are you going to let me in on the secret?"</p> + +<p>"Oh yes, might's well. I was just wondering—— I +don't think much of wasting all our youth waiting—— Two-three +years in engineering school, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_367" id="Page_367">[367]</a></span> +maybe going to war, and starting in on an engineering +job, and me lonely as a turkey in a chicken yard, +and you doing the faithful young lady in Brooklyn—— I +think perhaps we might get married tomorrow +and——"</p> + +<p>"Good heavens, what do you——?"</p> + +<p>"Do you want to go back to Brooklyn Gilsonses?"</p> + +<p>"No, but——"</p> + +<p>"Dear, can't we be crazy once, while we're youngsters?"</p> + +<p>"Don't bombard me so! Let me think. One must +be practical, even in craziness."</p> + +<p>"I am. I have over a thousand dollars from +the garage, and I can work evenings—as dear +Jeff suggested! We'd have a two-by-four flat—— Claire——"</p> + +<p>"Oh, let me think. I suppose I could go to the +university, too, and learn a little about food and babies +and building houses and government. I need to go +to school a lot more than you do. Besides auction +and the piano—which I play very badly—and clothes +and how to get hold of tickets for successful plays, I +don't know one single thing."</p> + +<p>"Will you marry me, tomorrow?"</p> + +<p>"Well, uh——"</p> + +<p>"Think of Mrs. Gilson's face when she learns it! +And Saxton, and that Mrs. Betz!"</p> + +<p>It was to no spoken sentence but to her kiss that she<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_368" id="Page_368">[368]</a></span> +added, "Providing we ever get the car out of this +river, that is!"</p> + +<p>"Oh, my dear, my dear, and all the romantic ways +I was going to propose! I had the best line about +roses and stars and angels and everything——"</p> + +<p>"They always use those, but nobody ever proposed +to me in a bug in a flood before! Oh! Milt! Life +is fun! I never knew it till you kidnapped me. If +you kiss me again like that, we'll both topple overboard. +By the way, <i>can</i> we get the car out?"</p> + +<p>"I think so, if we put on the chains. We'll have to +take off our shoes and stockings."</p> + +<p>Shyly, turning from him a little, she stripped off her +stockings and pumps, while he changed from a flivver-driver +into a young viking, with bare white neck, pale +hair ruffled about his head, trousers rolled up above his +straight knees—a young seaman of the crew of Eric +the Red.</p> + +<p>They swung out on the running-board, now awash. +With slight squeals they dropped into the cold stream. +Dripping, laughing, his clothes clinging to him, he +ducked down behind the car to get the jack under the +back axle, and with the water gurgling about her and +splashing its exhilarating coldness into her face, she +stooped beside him to yank the stiff new chains over +the rear wheels.</p> + +<p>They climbed back into the car, joyously raffish as +a pair of gipsies. She wiped a dab of mud from her<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_369" id="Page_369">[369]</a></span> +cheek, and remarked with an earnestness and a naturalness +which that Jeff Saxton who knew her so well +would never have recognized as hers:</p> + +<p>"Gee, I hope the old bird crawls out now."</p> + +<p>Milt let in the reverse, raced the engine, started +backward with a burst of muddy water churned up by +the whirling wheels. They struck the bank, sickeningly +hung there for two seconds, began to crawl up, +up, with a feeling that at any second they would drop +back again.</p> + +<p>Then, instantly, they were out on the shore and it +was absurd to think that they had ever been boating +down there in the stream. They washed each other's +muddy faces, and laughed a great deal, and rubbed +their legs with their stockings, and resumed something +of a dull and civilized aspect and, singing sentimental +ballads, turned back, found another road, and started +toward a peak.</p> + +<p>"I wonder what lies beyond the top of this climb?" +said Claire.</p> + +<p>"More mountains, and more, and more, and we're +going to keep on climbing them forever. At dawn, +we'll still be going on. And that's our life."</p> + +<p>"Ye-es, providing we can still buy gas."</p> + +<p>"Lord, that's so."</p> + +<p>"Speaking of which, did you know that I have +a tiny bit of money—it's about five thousand dollars—of +my own?"</p> + +<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_370" id="Page_370">[370]</a></span>"But—— That makes it impossible. Young tramp +marrying lady of huge wealth——"</p> + +<p>"No, you don't! I've accepted you. Do you think +I'm going to lose the one real playmate I've ever had? +It was so lonely on the Boltwoods' brown stoop till +Milt came along and whistled impertinently and made +the solemn little girl in frills play marbles and—— Watch +out for that turn! Heavens, how I have to +look after you! Is there a class in cooking at your university? +No—do—not—kiss—me—on—a—turn!"</p> + +<p>This is the beginning of the story of Milt and +Claire Daggett.</p> + +<p>The prelude over and the curtain risen on the actual +play, they face the anxieties and glories of a changing +world. Not without quarrels and barren hours, not +free from ignorance and the discomfort of finding +that between the mountain peaks they must for long +gray periods dwell in the dusty valleys, they yet start +their drama with the distinction of being able to laugh +together, with the advantage of having discovered +that neither Schoenstrom nor Brooklyn Heights is +quite all of life, with the cosmic importance to the +tedious world of believing in the romance that makes +youth unquenchable.</p> + +<p class="hd1">THE END.</p> + +<hr /> + +<div class="bk3"><p class="center"><span class="fxl">B. M. BOWER'S NOVELS</span></p> + +<div class="bk4"><p class="p1">May be had wherever books are sold. <span class="sp2">Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.</span></p></div> + +<div class="bk4"><div class="bk5"><p class="p4"><span class="sp1">CHIP OF THE FLYING U.</span> Wherein the love affairs of Chip and +Delia Whitman are charmingly and humorously told.</p> + +<p class="p4"><span class="sp1">THE HAPPY FAMILY.</span> A lively and amusing story, dealing with +the adventures of eighteen jovial, big-hearted Montana cowboys.</p> + +<p class="p4"><span class="sp1">HER PRAIRIE KNIGHT.</span> Describing a gay party of Easterners +who exchange a cottage at Newport for a Montana ranch-house.</p> + +<p class="p4"><span class="sp1">THE RANGE DWELLERS.</span> Spirited action, a range feud between +two families, and a Romeo and Juliet courtship make this a bright, +jolly story.</p> + +<p class="p4"><span class="sp1">THE LURE OF THE DIM TRAILS.</span> A vivid portrayal of the +experience of an Eastern author among the cowboys.</p> + +<p class="p4"><span class="sp1">THE LONESOME TRAIL.</span> A little branch of sage brush and the +recollection of a pair of large brown eyes upset "Weary" Davidson's +plans.</p> + +<p class="p4"><span class="sp1">THE LONG SHADOW.</span> A vigorous Western story, sparkling with +the free outdoor life of a mountain ranch. It is a fine love story.</p> + +<p class="p4"><span class="sp1">GOOD INDIAN.</span> A stirring romance of life on an Idaho ranch.</p> + +<p class="p4"><span class="sp1">FLYING U RANCH.</span> Another delightful story about Chip and +his pals.</p> + +<p class="p4"><span class="sp1">THE FLYING U'S LAST STAND.</span> An amusing account of Chip +and the other boys opposing a party of school teachers.</p> + +<p class="p4"><span class="sp1">THE UPHILL CLIMB.</span> A story of a mountain ranch and of a +man's hard fight on the uphill road to manliness.</p> + +<p class="p4"><span class="sp1">THE PHANTOM HERD.</span> The title of a moving-picture staged in +New Mexico by the "Flying U" boys.</p> + +<p class="p4"><span class="sp1">THE HERITAGE OF THE SIOUX.</span> The "Flying U" boys stage +a fake bank robbery for film purposes which precedes a real one +for lust of gold.</p> + +<p class="p4"><span class="sp1">THE GRINGOS.</span> A story of love and adventure on a ranch in +California.</p> + +<p class="p4"><span class="sp1">STARR OF THE DESERT.</span> A New Mexico ranch story of mystery +and adventure.</p> + +<p class="p4"><span class="sp1">THE LOOKOUT MAN.</span> A Northern California story full of action, +excitement and love.</p></div></div> + +<div class="bk4"> +<p class="p2">Grosset & Dunlap, <span class="sp2">Publishers,</span> <span class="sp2">New York</span></p> +</div> +</div> + +<hr /> + +<div class="bk3"><p class="center"><span class="fxl"><small>STORIES OF RARE CHARM BY</small><br /> +GENE STRATTON-PORTER</span></p> + +<div class="bk4"><p class="p1">May be had wherever books are sold. <span class="sp2">Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.</span></p></div> + +<div class="bk4"><div class="bk5"><p><span class="sp1">MICHAEL O'HALLORAN.</span> Illustrated by Frances Rogers.</p> + +<p class="p3">Michael is a quick-witted little Irish newsboy, living in Northern +Indiana. He adopts a deserted little girl, a cripple. He also assumes +the responsibility of leading the entire rural community upward +and onward.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">LADDIE.</span> Illustrated by Herman Pfeifer.</p> + +<p class="p3">This is a bright, cheery tale with the scenes laid in Indiana. The +story is told by Little Sister, the youngest member of a large family, +but it is concerned not so much with childish doings as with the love +affairs of older members of the family. Chief among them is that +of Laddie and the Princess, an English girl who has come to live in +the neighborhood and about whose family there hangs a mystery.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">THE HARVESTER.</span> Illustrated by W. L. Jacobs.</p> + +<p class="p3">"The Harvester," is a man of the woods and fields, and if the +book had nothing in it but the splendid figure of this man it would +be notable. But when the Girl comes to his "Medicine Woods," +there begins a romance of the rarest idyllic quality.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">FRECKLES.</span> Illustrated.</p> + +<p class="p3">Freckles is a nameless waif when the tale opens, but the way in +which he takes hold of life; the nature friendships he forms in the +great Limberlost Swamp; the manner in which everyone who meets +him succumbs to the charm of his engaging personality; and his +love-story with "The Angel" are full of real sentiment.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">A GIRL OF THE LIMBERLOST.</span> Illustrated.</p> + +<p class="p3">The story of a girl of the Michigan woods; a buoyant, loveable +type of the self-reliant American. Her philosophy is one of love and +kindness towards all things; her hope is never dimmed. And by +the sheer beauty of her soul, and the purity of her vision, she wins from +barren and unpromising surroundings those rewards of high courage.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">AT THE FOOT OF THE RAINBOW.</span> Illustrations in colors.</p> + +<p class="p3">The scene of this charming love story is laid in Central Indiana. +The story is one of devoted friendship, and tender self-sacrificing +love. The novel is brimful of the most beautiful word painting of +nature, and its pathos and tender sentiment will endear it to all.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">THE SONG OF THE CARDINAL.</span> Profusely illustrated.</p> + +<p class="p3">A love ideal of the Cardinal bird and his mate, told with delicacy +and humor.</p></div></div> + +<div class="bk4"> +<p class="p2">Grosset & Dunlap, <span class="sp2">Publishers,</span> <span class="sp2">New York</span></p> +</div></div> + +<hr /> + +<div class="bk3"><p class="center"><span class="fxl">ZANE GREY'S NOVELS</span></p> + +<div class="bk4"><p class="p1">May be had wherever books are sold. <span class="sp2">Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.</span></p></div> + +<div class="bk4"><div class="bk5"><p><span class="sp1">THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS</span></p> + +<p class="p3">A New York society girl buys a ranch which becomes the center of frontier warfare. +Her loyal superintendent rescues her when she is captured by bandits. A +surprising climax brings the story to a delightful close.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">THE RAINBOW TRAIL</span></p> + +<p class="p3">The story of a young clergyman who becomes a wanderer in the great western +uplands—until at last love and faith awake.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">DESERT GOLD</span></p> + +<p class="p3">The story describes the recent uprising along the border, and ends with the finding +of the gold which two prospectors had willed to the girl who is the story's heroine.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE</span></p> + +<p class="p3">A picturesque romance of Utah of some forty years ago when Mormon authority +ruled. The prosecution of Jane Withersteen is the theme of the story.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">THE LAST OF THE PLAINSMEN</span></p> + +<p class="p3">This is the record of a trip which the author took with Buffalo Jones, known as the +preserver of the American bison, across the Arizona desert and of a hunt in "that +wonderful country of deep cañons and giant pines."</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT</span></p> + +<p class="p3">A lovely girl, who has been reared among Mormons, learns to love a young New +Englander. The Mormon religion, however, demands that the girl shall become +the second wife of one of the Mormons—Well, that's the problem of this great story.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">THE SHORT STOP</span></p> + +<p class="p3">The young hero, tiring of his factory grind, starts out to win fame and fortune as +a professional ball player. His hard knocks at the start are followed by such success +as clean sportsmanship, courage and honesty ought to win.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">BETTY ZANE</span></p> + +<p class="p3">This story tells of the bravery and heroism of Betty, the beautiful young sister of +old Colonel Zane, one of the bravest pioneers.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">THE LONE STAR RANGER</span></p> + +<p class="p3">After killing a man in self defense, Buck Duane becomes an outlaw along the +Texas border. In a camp on the Mexican side of the river, he finds a young girl held +prisoner, and in attempting to rescue her, brings down upon himself the wrath of her +captors and henceforth is hunted on one side by honest men, on the other by outlaws.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">THE BORDER LEGION</span></p> + +<p class="p3">Joan Randle, in a spirit of anger, sent Jim Cleve out to a lawless Western mining +camp, to prove his mettle. Then realizing that she loved him—she followed him out. +On her way, she is captured by a bandit band, and trouble begins when she shoots +Kells, the leader—and nurses him to health again. Here enters another romance—when +Joan, disguised as an outlaw, observes Jim, in the throes of dissipation. A gold +strike, a thrilling robbery—gambling and gun play carry you along breathlessly.</p></div></div> + +<div class="bk4"><div class="bk5"><p><span class="sp1">THE LAST OF THE GREAT SCOUTS,</span><br /> +<span class="sp2">By Helen Cody Wetmore and Zane Grey</span></p> + +<p class="p3">The life story of Colonel William F. Cody, "Buffalo Bill" as told by his sister and +Zane Grey. It begins with his boyhood in Iowa and his first encounter with an Indian. +We see "Bill" as a pony express rider, then near Fort Sumter as Chief of +the Scouts, and later engaged in the most dangerous Indian campaigns. There is +also a very interesting account of the travels of "The Wild West" Show. No character +in public life makes a stronger appeal to the imagination of America than +"Buffalo Bill," whose daring and bravery made him famous.</p></div></div> + +<div class="bk4"> +<p class="p2">Grosset & Dunlap, <span class="sp2">Publishers,</span> <span class="sp2">New York</span></p> +</div></div> + +<hr /> + +<div class="bk3"><p class="center"><span class="fxl"><small>NOVELS OF FRONTIER LIFE BY</small><br /> +WILLIAM <span class="smcap">MacLEOD</span> RAINE</span></p> + +<div class="bk4"><p class="p1">May be had wherever books are sold. <span class="sp2">Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.</span></p></div> + +<div class="bk4"><div class="bk5"><p><span class="sp1">MAVERICKS</span></p> + +<p class="p3">A tale of the western frontier, where the "rustler" abounds. One of the sweetest +love stories ever told.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">A TEXAS RANGER</span></p> + +<p class="p3">How a member of the border police saved the life of an innocent man, followed a +fugitive to Wyoming, and then passed through deadly peril to ultimate happiness.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">WYOMING</span></p> + +<p class="p3">In this vivid story the author brings out the turbid life of the frontier with all its +engaging dash and vigor.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">RIDGWAY OF MONTANA</span></p> + +<p class="p3">The scene is laid in the mining centers of Montana, where politics and mining industries +are the religion of the country.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">BUCKY O'CONNOR</span></p> + +<p class="p3">Every chapter teems with wholesome, stirring adventures, replete with the dashing +spirit of the border.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">CROOKED TRAILS AND STRAIGHT</span></p> + +<p class="p3">A story of Arizona; of swift-riding men and daring outlaws; of a bitter feud between +cattle-men and sheep-herders.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">BRAND BLOTTERS</span></p> + +<p class="p3">A story of the turbid life of the frontier with a charming love interest running +through its pages.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">STEVE YEAGER</span></p> + +<p class="p3">A story brimful of excitement, with enough gun-play and adventure to suit anyone.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">A DAUGHTER OF THE DONS</span></p> + +<p class="p3">A Western story of romance and adventure, comprising a vivacious and stirring +tale.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">THE HIGHGRADER</span></p> + +<p class="p3">A breezy, pleasant and amusing love story of Western mining life.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">THE PIRATE OF PANAMA</span></p> + +<p class="p3">A tale of old-time pirates and of modern love, hate and adventure.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">THE YUKON TRAIL</span></p> + +<p class="p3">A crisply entertaining love story in the land where might makes right.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">THE VISION SPLENDID</span></p> + +<p class="p3">In which two cousins are contestants for the same prizes; political honors and the +hand of a girl.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">THE SHERIFF'S SON</span></p> + +<p class="p3">The hero finally conquers both himself and his enemies and wins the love of a +wonderful girl.</p></div></div> + +<div class="bk4"> +<p class="p2">Grosset & Dunlap, <span class="sp2">Publishers,</span> <span class="sp2">New York</span></p> +</div></div> + +<hr /> + +<div class="bk3"><p class="center"><span class="fxl">JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD'S<br /> +<small>STORIES OF ADVENTURE</small></span></p> + +<div class="bk4"><p class="p1">May be had wherever books are sold. <span class="sp2">Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.</span></p></div> + +<div class="bk4"><div class="bk5"><p><span class="sp1">KAZAN</span></p> + +<p class="p3">The tale of a "quarter-strain wolf and three-quarters husky" +torn between the call of the human and his wild mate.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">BAREE, SON OF KAZAN</span></p> + +<p class="p3">The story of the son of the blind Grey Wolf and the gallant +part he played in the lives of a man and a woman.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">THE COURAGE OF CAPTAIN PLUM</span></p> + +<p class="p3">The story of the King of Beaver Island, a Mormon colony, +and his battle with Captain Plum.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">THE DANGER TRAIL</span></p> + +<p class="p3">A tale of snow, of love, of Indian vengeance, and a mystery +of the North.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">THE HUNTED WOMAN</span></p> + +<p class="p3">A tale of the "end of the line," and of a great fight in the +"valley of gold" for a woman.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">THE FLOWER OF THE NORTH</span></p> + +<p class="p3">The story of Fort o' God, where the wild flavor of the wilderness +is blended with the courtly atmosphere of France.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">THE GRIZZLY KING</span></p> + +<p class="p3">The story of Thor, the big grizzly who lived in a valley where +man had never come.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">ISOBEL</span></p> + +<p class="p3">A love story of the Far North.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">THE WOLF HUNTERS</span></p> + +<p class="p3">A thrilling tale of adventure in the Canadian wilderness.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">THE GOLD HUNTERS</span></p> + +<p class="p3">The story of adventure in the Hudson Bay wilds.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">THE COURAGE OF MARGE O'DOONE</span></p> + +<p class="p3">Filled with exciting incidents in the land of strong men and +women.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">BACK TO GOD'S COUNTRY</span></p> + +<p class="p3">A thrilling story of the Far North. The great Photoplay was +made from this book.</p></div></div> + +<div class="bk4"> +<p class="p2">Grosset & Dunlap, <span class="sp2">Publishers,</span> <span class="sp2">New York</span></p> +</div></div> + +<hr /> + +<div class="bk3"><p class="center"><span class="fxl">RALPH CONNOR'S STORIES<br /> +<small>OF THE NORTHWEST</small></span></p> + +<div class="bk4"><p class="p1">May be had wherever books are sold. <span class="sp2">Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.</span></p></div> + +<div class="bk4"><div class="bk5"><p><span class="sp1">THE SKY PILOT IN NO MAN'S LAND</span></p> + +<p class="p3">The clean-hearted, strong-limbed man of the West leaves +his hills and forests to fight the battle for freedom in the +old world.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">BLACK ROCK</span></p> + +<p class="p3">A story of strong men in the mountains of the West.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">THE SKY PILOT</span></p> + +<p class="p3">A story of cowboy life, abounding in the freshest humor, +the truest tenderness and the finest courage.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">THE PROSPECTOR</span></p> + +<p class="p3">A tale of the foothills and of the man who came to them +to lend a hand to the lonely men and women who needed a +protector.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">THE MAN FROM GLENGARRY</span></p> + +<p class="p3">This narrative brings us into contact with elemental and +volcanic human nature and with a hero whose power breathes +from every word.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">GLENGARRY SCHOOL DAYS</span></p> + +<p class="p3">In this rough country of Glengarry, Ralph Connor has +found human nature in the rough.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">THE DOCTOR</span></p> + +<p class="p3">The story of a "preacher-doctor" whom big men and +reckless men loved for his unselfish life among them.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">THE FOREIGNER</span></p> + +<p class="p3">A tale of the Saskatchewan and of a "foreigner" who +made a brave and winning fight for manhood and love.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">CORPORAL CAMERON</span></p> + +<p class="p3">This splendid type of the upright, out-of-door man about +which Ralph Connor builds all his stories, appears again in +this book.</p></div></div> + +<div class="bk4"> +<p class="p2">Grosset & Dunlap, <span class="sp2">Publishers,</span> <span class="sp2">New York</span></p> +</div></div> + +<hr /> + +<div class="bk3"><p class="center"><span class="fxl">BOOTH TARKINGTON'S NOVELS</span></p> + +<div class="bk4"><p class="p1">May be had wherever books are sold. <span class="sp2">Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.</span></p></div> + +<div class="bk4"><div class="bk5"><p><span class="sp1">SEVENTEEN.</span> Illustrated by Arthur William Brown.</p> + +<p class="p3">No one but the creator of Penrod could have portrayed +the immortal young people of this story. Its humor is irresistible +and reminiscent of the time when the reader was +Seventeen.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">PENROD.</span> Illustrated by Gordon Grant.</p> + +<p class="p3">This is a picture of a boy's heart, full of the lovable, humorous, +tragic things which are locked secrets to most older +folks. It is a finished, exquisite work.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">PENROD AND SAM.</span> Illustrated by Worth Brehm.</p> + +<p class="p3">Like "Penrod" and "Seventeen," this book contains +some remarkable phases of real boyhood and some of the best +stories of juvenile prankishness that have ever been written.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">THE TURMOIL.</span> Illustrated by C. E. Chambers.</p> + +<p class="p3">Bibbs Sheridan is a dreamy, imaginative youth, who revolts +against his father's plans for him to be a servitor of +big business. The love of a fine girl turns Bibbs's life from +failure to success.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">THE GENTLEMAN FROM INDIANA.</span> Frontispiece.</p> + +<p class="p3">A story of love and politics,—more especially a picture of +a country editor's life in Indiana, but the charm of the book +lies in the love interest.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">THE FLIRT.</span> Illustrated by Clarence F. Underwood.</p> + +<p class="p3">The "Flirt," the younger of two sisters, breaks one girl's +engagement, drives one man to suicide, causes the murder +of another, leads another to lose his fortune, and in the end +marries a stupid and unpromising suitor, leaving the really +worthy one to marry her sister.</p></div></div> + +<div class="bk4"><p class="p1"><i><big>Ask for Complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction</big></i></p></div> + +<div class="bk4"> +<p class="p2">Grosset & Dunlap, <span class="sp2">Publishers,</span> <span class="sp2">New York</span></p> +</div></div> + +<hr /> + +<div class="bk3"><p class="center"><span class="fxl">ELEANOR H. PORTER'S NOVELS</span></p> + +<div class="bk4"><p class="p1">May be had wherever books are sold. <span class="sp2">Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.</span></p></div> + +<div class="bk4"><div class="bk5"><p><span class="sp1">JUST DAVID</span></p> + +<p class="p3">The tale of a loveable boy and the place he comes to +fill in the hearts of the gruff farmer folk to whose care he +is left.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">THE ROAD TO UNDERSTANDING</span></p> + +<p class="p3">A compelling romance of love and marriage.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">OH, MONEY! MONEY!</span></p> + +<p class="p3">Stanley Fulton, a wealthy bachelor, to test the dispositions +of his relatives, sends them each a check for $100,000, +and then as plain John Smith comes among them to +watch the result of his experiment.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">SIX STAR RANCH</span></p> + +<p class="p3">A wholesome story of a club of six girls and their summer +on Six Star Ranch.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">DAWN</span></p> + +<p class="p3">The story of a blind boy whose courage leads him +through the gulf of despair into a final victory gained by +dedicating his life to the service of blind soldiers.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">ACROSS THE YEARS</span></p> + +<p class="p3">Short stories of our own kind and of our own people. +Contains some of the best writing Mrs. Porter has done.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">THE TANGLED THREADS</span></p> + +<p class="p3">In these stories we find the concentrated charm and +tenderness of all her other books.</p> + +<p><span class="sp1">THE TIE THAT BINDS</span></p> + +<p class="p3">Intensely human stories told with Mrs. Porter's wonderful +talent for warm and vivid character drawing.</p></div></div> + +<div class="bk4"> +<p class="p2">Grosset & Dunlap, <span class="sp2">Publishers,</span> <span class="sp2">New York</span></p> +</div></div> + +<div class="trn"><b>Transcriber's Note:</b> +Dialect spellings have been retained. Inconsistent hyphenation, except when +used for emphasis, has been standardised. +Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note.</div> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Free Air, by Sinclair Lewis + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FREE AIR *** + +***** This file should be named 26732-h.htm or 26732-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/2/6/7/3/26732/ + +Produced by K Nordquist, Stephen Blundell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This +file was produced from images generously made available +by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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