Читать книгу The Fighter - Albert Payson Terhune - Страница 4

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Conover lounged back and forth in the pretty little reception room of Desirée Shevlin’s house, halting now and then to glance with puzzled approval at some item of its furnishings. The room—the whole house—was to him a mystery. Contentedly devoid of taste though he was, the man dimly realized the charm of the place and the dainty perfection of its appointment. That Desirée had accomplished this in no way astonished him. For he believed her quite capable of any minor miracle. But in it all he took a pride that had voiced itself once in the comment:

“I don’t see how you could make a room look so nice without a single tidy or even a bow fastened up anywhere. But why did you get those dull old tiles for your mantel? I wouldn’t a’ kicked at payin’ for the best marble.”

To-day, Conover gave less than usual homage to the apartment. He was agog to tell its owner his wonderful tidings, and he chafed at her delay in appearing. At last she came—the one person on earth who could have kept Caleb Conover waiting; without paying, by sharp reproof, for the delay.

“I’m sorry I was so long,” she began as she brushed the curtains aside and hurried in, “But Billy and I couldn’t agree on the joys of tubbing. I’d hate to hate anything as much as he hates his bath. Now you’ve had some good luck! Glorious, scrumptious good luck! I can tell by the way your mustache is all chewed. You only chew it when you’re excited. And you are only excited when something good has happened. Isn’t it clever of me to know that? I ought to write it up: ‘Facial Fur as a Bliss Barometer.’ How—Oh, I didn’t mean to be silly when you’re bursting with news. Please be good and tell me. Is it anything about Steeloid?”

“It’s all about Steeloid,” he answered. “I’ve won out—I’ve made my pile.”

She caught both his hands in hers, with a gesture almost awkward in its happy impulsiveness.

“Oh, I’m so glad! So glad!” she cried. “Tell me!”

Boyishly, bluntly, eagerly, Conover repeated his story.

His florid face was alight, enthusiasm wellnigh choking him. She heard him out with an excitement almost as great as his own. As he finished she clapped her hands with a little laugh of utter delight.

“Oh, splendid!” she exclaimed. “No one but you would ever have thought of it. It’s—” her flush of pleasure yielding momentarily to a look of troubled query—“It’s perfectly—honest, of course?”

“It’s business,” he replied.

“That’s the same thing, I suppose,” she said, much relieved, “And you’re rich?”

“A million anyway. And you’ll—”

“Hell!”

Both turned at the wonder-inspired, sulphurous monosyllable. Desirée jerked the curtain aside, revealing a stocky small boy, very red of face. He was clutching a blue bath robe about him and had no apparent aim in life save to escape from the situation into which his involuntary expletive had betrayed him.

“Now don’t go callin’ me down, Dey,” he pleaded. “I just happened to be going past—I was on the way to take my bath, all right—on the level I was—an’ I heard Mr. Conover say about havin’ a million. An’—an’—I spoke without thinkin’.”

He had been edging toward the stair-foot as he talked. Now, finding the lower step behind him, he fled upward on pattering desperate feet.

“Poor Billy!” laughed Desirée, “He’s an awfully good little chap. But he will listen. I can’t break him of it.”

“Maybe I could,” hazarded Conover.

“You’d break his neck and his heart at the same time. Leave him to me. Nothing but kindness does any good where he is concerned.”

“Ever try a bale-stick?” suggested Caleb.

“That will do!” she reproved. “Now, I want to hear more about Steeloid. Poor Mr. Blacarda! It’s pretty hagorous for him, isn’t it?”

“If ‘hagorous’ means he’s got it in the neck, it is.”

“‘Hagorous’” explained Desirée, loftily, “means anything horrid. I know, because I made it up. It’s such a comfort to make up words. Because then, you see, you can give them meanings as you go along. It saves a lot of bother. Did you ever try it?”

“No,” said Conover, apologetically. “I’m afraid I never did. Maybe I could, though, if it’d make a hit with you. But you were talkin’ about Blacarda. You ain’t wastin’ sympathy on him, are you?”

“I’m sorry for anyone that gets the worst of it. But—”

“But no sorrier for Blacarda than you would be for anybody else?”

“Of course not. Why?”

“He comes here a lot. Twice I’ve met him here. Is he stuck on you?”

“I think he is.”

“I guess most people are,” sighed Caleb. “I don’t blame him; so long as you don’t care about him. You don’t, do you?” he finished anxiously.

“He’s very handsome,” she observed demurely.

“Is he?”

“Well—pretty handsome.”

“Is he?”

“He’s—I’ve heard girls say so.”

“H’m! Nice crimson lips, red cheeks, oily curled hair and eyes like a couple of ginger snaps!”

“No,” corrected Desirée, judicially, “More like chocolate pies. There’s something very sweet and melting about them. And, besides, you mustn’t run him down. He’s very nice to me. Last night he asked me to marry him. What do you think of that? Honestly, he did.”

“The measly he-doll! I wish I’d broke him a year ago instead of waiting for the Steeloid scrap. What’d you say when he asked you?”

“Your face gets such a curious shade of magenta when you are angry, Caleb,” mused Desirée, observing him critically, her head on one side. “But it doesn’t match your hair a little bit. There, I didn’t mean to tease you. Yes, I did mean it, too, but I’m sorry. I told him I couldn’t marry him, of course.”

“Good work!” approved Caleb, “What’d he say then?”

“He—he asked if I’d try and look on him as a brother—‘a dear brother,’ and—”

She broke off with a reminiscent laugh.

“Well, what did you say?”

“I’m afraid I was a little rude. But I didn’t mean to be. I’d heard a smothered giggle from over in the corner. So I told him if I’d really had any use for a brother—a ‘dear brother,’—I could reach right behind the divan and get one. He stalked over to the divan. And sure enough there, behind the cushions, was Billy, all wudged up in a little heap. He—”

“All—what?” asked the perplexed Conover, pausing in the midst of a Homeric guffaw.

“‘Wudged.’ All wudged up—like this—” crumpling her ten fingers into a white, compact little bunch. “Mr. Blacarda was very angry. He went away.”

She joined for an instant in Conover’s laughter; then checked herself with a stamp of her foot.

“Stop!” she ordered. “I’m a little beast to behave so. He—cared for me. He asked me to marry him. There ought to be something sacred in all that. And here I am making fun of him. Caleb, please say something to make me more ashamed.”

“You’re all right, girl!” chuckled Caleb in huge delight. “Poor pink-an’-white Blacarda! You were—”

“I wasn’t! I ought to be whipped for telling you. But—but somehow, I seem to tell you everything. Honestly, I wouldn’t tell anyone else. Honestly! You know that, don’t you?”

“I know you’re the whitest, brightest, jolliest kid that ever happened,” returned Conover, “but you needn’t bother about Blacarda. I won’t tell. Now I’ve got to get out.”

“Aren’t you going to take me for a walk or a drive or anything? It’s such a gorgeous day, and it’s so early. Almost as early as it ever gets to be.”

“I can’t, worse luck!” said he. “I’ve got a measly appointment at the Arareek. An’ besides—say, little girl, I don’t know about walking or driving with you any more.”

“Caleb!”

“Listen, till I explain. Now that Mrs. Hawarden’s took such a fancy to you an’ took you up an’ chap’roned you to places where I’d be chased out with a broom—an’ all that—well, you get invited to big folks’ houses. That’s how you met Blacarda, wasn’t it? He travels with the gold-shirt crowd. Now, that crowd don’t care about me. They will, some day. But they don’t, yet. An’ if you’re seen around with a rank outsider like me—it’ll—it may kind of make ’em think you’re the same sort I am. An’ that’ll be liable to queer you with ’em. An—”

“Caleb Conover!”

He stopped, thoroughly uncomfortable, yet vaguely glad of having eased his mind of its worry for her prospects. She was frowning up at him with all the menacing ferocity of an Angora kitten.

“Caleb Conover!” she repeated, in stern rebuke. “Aren’t you ashamed? Aren’t you ashamed? Say you are! Now go and stand in the corner. If I ever hear you talk that way about yourself again—why Caleb! We’re chums, you and I. Don’t you know that I’d rather have you than all those people put together? Now talk very fast about something else, or I won’t get my temper back again. What’s your appointment about?”

“At the Arareek?” he asked, falling in, as ever, with her lightning change of mood. “Oh, nothing much. It’s a meeting of the Board of Governors. There’s a man in the Club who got in by influence, before they realized just what sort of a punk feller he was. An’ now they’ve called a meeting to see about kickin’ him out. There’s to be a vote on it. An’ he’s to appear before ’em to-day to defend himself. Not quite reg’lar in Club by-laws, Caine tells me. But that’s what’s to be done. They say: ‘his business methods bring disrepoote on the Club.’ That’s the sp’cific charge I b’lieve.”

“But what have you got to do with all that?”

“Nothin’—Except I’m the shrinkin’ victim.”

“You! Is it—a joke?”

“Not on me. I’ll fix it all right. Don’t you worry now. I wouldn’t a’ told you about it if I hadn’t known I’d win out.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course I am. What chance has that bunch of mutton-heads against anyone with man’s size brains in his skull? Sure, I’ll win. Now, don’t look like that, Dey. It breaks me all up to have you blue. I tell you it’ll be all right.”

“Who are the Governors?”

“Your friend Blacarda is one.”

“Oh! That’s bad.”

“Only counts one vote. And Caine’s another. He’s on my side. He has more pull with those people than Blacarda.”

“I wonder why you and Mr. Caine are such friends. There never were two other men as different.”

“He owns the biggest noospaper in Granite, an’ he belongs to one of the top-notch families. So he’s a power in his own way, for all he’s such an odd fish. ‘Eccentric’ they call it, don’t they? Why do we travel together? That lazy don’t-care way of his and his trick of twistin’ sentences upside down an’ then callin’ ’em ‘epigrams’ is kind of amoosin’. Besides, he’s of use to me. That explains my side of it. I’m of use to him. That explains his. He’ll more’n offset Blacarda.”

“Who are the rest?”

“Hawarden’s one. Husband of your chap’rone friend.”

“Oh, I wish I’d known! I’d have asked her to—”

“I don’t think it’s nec’ssary,” evaded Caleb. “He’ll be all right, I guess.”

“I didn’t know you knew him.”

“No more I do. But I’ve an idea he’ll vote for me.”

“Just the same I wish I’d asked Mrs. Hawarden to make him do it. She’s been so nice to me, I’m sure she’d have done me one more favor.”

“Nice to you, is she? Reelly nice?”

“She’s a dear. Just think of a woman in her position hunting me out and making friends with me and asking me all the time to her house and introducing me to people who wouldn’t otherwise have even poked me with a silver handled umbrella! Nice? I should think she was.”

“Yes,” drawled Conover, solemnly, “I guess she must be. Old Reuben Standish is one of the Governors, too. Know him? President of the Aaron Burr Bank. Big society bug, tradin’ on fam’ly that’s dead an’ fortune that’s dribbled through his fingers. Sort of man that’s so stiff he never unbends till he’s broke.”

“I think I’ve met him,” reflected Desirée. “Doesn’t he look just a little like a rail? Gray and long and mossy—with a sort of home-made face? And one eye that toes in just a little?”

“That’s the man,” grinned Caleb in high approval. “There’s two kinds of financiers: the thick-necked, red-faced kind, with chests that have slipped down;—an’ the cold gray kind. Gray hair, gray eyes, gray skin, gray clothes an’ gray mustache. Gray souls, too. That sort never take on weight. An’ there’s just enough humanness in their faces to put you in mind of the North Pole. Thank the Lord, I’m one of the thick, red breed!”

“Do you mean all over or just your head?” queried Desirée innocently, as she glanced at his stiff, carroty hair. “Oh, it’s awfully nice of you to laugh at my poor little jokes. I wonder what you’d do if you ever met a really clever woman?”

“I s’pose I’d begin figurin’ out how stupid she’d frame up alongside of you,” he answered simply. “You see, I—”

“You were talking about Mr. Standish. Is he going to vote for you?”

“As I lent his bank $96,000 last year when it was shaky from a run, I guess he is. Not that he’s over-grateful. But his bank’s in a bad way again and he’s li’ble to need me.”

“So you are going to discount his future gratitude?”

“Just so. He needs me. An’—I need him. Not only for to-day, but for a plan I’ve been thinkin’ over.”

“I wish I could help you with him. I’ve met his daughter, Letty, once or twice. They say she’s engaged to Mr. Caine. Mrs. Hawarden tells me they’ve been in love with each other ever since she stopped playing with dolls. I should have hated to give up dolls just in exchange for Mr. Caine. Are there any more Governors?”

“A few. None that you know. I must be off. Now, remember, you aren’t to worry. It’s all right. I wouldn’t bother to keep in the Club if it was like most places of that kind. But it isn’t. The Arareek’s an institootion in Granite. If you ain’t in it, you’re nobody. An’ at Ladies’ Days an’ times like that, the Big people always show up. It’s a good thing to belong. Besides, a feller gets lots of new experience by joinin’ a country club. F’r instance, I never knew what reel lonesoneness was till I went to a few of their Ladies’ Days an’ Field Days. I might as well a’ been on a desert island.”

“You poor boy! It’s a burning shame! Why do you—?”

“Oh, it ain’t always goin’ to be like that. Don’t be sorry about it. I’ll whip ’em into shape before I’m done.”

The soaring, clear song of a canary broke in on his boast. Beginning with a faint, barely audible trill, it rose in a glorious piercing crescendo of melody; hung, vibrated, scaled a whole octave, then ceased as abruptly as it had begun.

Caleb turned toward the window between whose curtains swung a cage. The occupant, a ball of golden fluff, barred with gray-green, hopped self-importantly from perch to perch, nervously delighted with the man’s scrutiny.

“Hello!” said Conover. “When’d you get that? I never saw him before.”

“He came yesterday,” explained Desirée. “Isn’t he a little darling? Jack Hawarden sent him to me.”

“That kid? You don’t mean to say he’s stuck on you, too? Why he’s barely twenty-one an’ he can’t earn his own livin’.”

“It’s a real pleasure, Caleb, to hear your fulsome praise of the men I happen to know. First Mr. Blacarda, and now—”

“That’s what’s called ‘sarcasm,’ ain’t it?” asked Conover. “I didn’t mean to rile you. I guess young Hawarden’s all right,—as far’s college let him learn to be. What’s the bird’s name? Or don’t birds have names?”

“Why? Had you thought of one for him? How would ‘Steeloid’ do?”

Caleb’s grin of genuine delight at the suggestion made her add quickly with more tact than truth:

“I wish I’d thought of that before. How silly of me not to! For, you see he’s already named now.”

“Oh, he is, hey?” said the discomfited Conover. “Who named him? Hawarden?”

“No. Billy and I. His name’s Siegfried-Mickey.”

“What a crazy name for a—!”

“Yes, isn’t it? That’s why I like it so. Billy wanted to call him ‘Mickey’ after the bulldog he used to have. And I wanted to call him Siegfried. So we compromised on Siegfried-Mickey. He’s a dear. He knows his name already. Don’t you, Siegfried Mickey?”

The bird, thus adjured, maintained a severely non-committal dumbness.

“See!” triumphed Desirée, “Silence gives assent. He’s a heavenly little singer. Why, only this morning, he sang nearly all the first bar of ‘The Death of Ase’.”

“The which?”

“‘The Death of Ase.’ In the Peer Gynt suite, you know.”

“Oh, yes! Of course. Sure!” mumbled Caleb hastily. “I was thinkin’ of some other feller’s suite. An’ he sang that, did he? The clever little cuss!”

“Wasn’t he, though? And he’d only heard me play it once.”

“Pretty hard thing to sing, too!” supplemented Caleb, wisely.

“Caleb Conover,” she rebuked in cold admonition, “Look at me! No, in the eyes! There! Now, how often have I told you not to make believe? You treat me just as if I was a child. Why do you pretend to know about ‘The Death of Ase,’ you dear old simple humbug? Don’t you know I always find you out when you—?”

“I didn’t want you to think I wasn’t up on the things that int’rest you, girl,” he pleaded. “It’s rotten to feel you’ve got to talk down to me every time you speak about music or litterchoor or those things. An’—Lord! but I do hate to let on when I don’t understand things.”

“You understand more of the real things—the things that are worth while—than any other man alive,” she protested. “Now say goodbye and run on, or you’ll be late. Don’t forget to stop on the way back and let me know whether the lions eat Daniel or if Daniel—”

“Eats the lions? I don’t know who Dan’l was, but this ain’t goin’ to be that kind of a show. It’ll just be a sheep-killin’ contest. An’ I never was built to play the alloorin’ role of Sheep. So you can figger out who’ll be killer an’ who’ll get the job of killee.”