Читать книгу Webster—Man's Man - Peter B. Kyne - Страница 5

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JOHN STUART WEBSTER passed a restless night. Sleep came to him in hourly installments, from which he would rouse to ask himself whether it was worth while to continue to go through the motions of living, or alight at the next station, seek a lonely and unfrequented spot and there surrender to outrageous fortune. He had lived every moment of his life; fair fortune and ill had been his portion so often that he had long since ceased to care which took precedence over the other; to quote Mr. Kipling, he had schooled himself to “treat those two impostors both the same”—not a very difficult task, if one be granted a breathing spell between the arrival of each impostor! Hitherto, in Webster's experience, there had always been a decent interval between the two—say a day, a week, a month or more; whereas in the present instance, two minutes had sufficed to make the journey from a heaven of contentment to the dungeons of despair.

It was altogether damnable. In a careless moment, Fate had accorded him a glimpse of the only woman he had ever met and desired to meet again—for Webster was essentially a man's man, and his profession and environment had militated against his opportunities for meeting extraordinary women; and extraordinary women were the only kind that could hope to challenge his serious attention. Had his luck changed there, he might have rested content with his lot—but it hadn't. Fate had gone farther. She had accorded him a signal opportunity for knightly combat in the service of this extraordinary woman; and in the absence of a formal introduction, what man could desire a finer opportunity for getting acquainted! If only their meeting had but been delayed two weeks, ten days, a week! Once free of his ugly cocoon of rags and whiskers, the butterfly Webster would not have hesitated one brief instant to inform himself of that young lady's name and address, following his summary disposal of her tormentor. Trusting to the mingled respect and confusion in his manner, and to her own womanly intuition to warn her that no rudeness or brazen familiarity was intended, he would have presented himself before her and addressed her in these words:

“A few minutes ago, Miss, you were gracious enough to accord me the rare pleasure of being of slight service to you. May I presume on that evidence of your generosity and perfect understanding to risk a seeming impertinence by presuming to address you?”

Webster pictured her as bowing, favouring him with that grave yet interested scrutiny and saying: “Certainly, sir.” Whereupon he would say:

“It has occurred to me—for, like Bimi, the orangoutang, I have perhaps too much ego in my cosmos—that you might be charitably moved to admit me to the happy circle of those privileged to call you by name. Were there a mutual friend on this train whom I could prevail upon to introduce me formally, I should not be reduced to the necessity of being unconventional. Under the circumstances, however, I am daring enough to presume that this misfortune is not so great that I should permit it to interfere with my respectful desires. Therefore—have I your permission to present myself, with the hope that in so doing I may feel freer to be of additional service to you throughout the remainder of our journey?”

That would be a pretty, a graceful speech—a little ornate, doubtless, but diplomatic in the extreme. Having been accorded permission to introduce himself, he would cease thereafter to be flowery. However, Webster realized that however graceful might be his speech and bearing, should he essay the great adventure in the morning, his appearance would render him ridiculous and presumptuous and perhaps shock and humiliate her; for in all things there is a limit, and John Stuart Webster's right eye constituted a deadline beyond which, as a gentleman, he dared not venture; so with a heavy heart he bowed to the inevitable. Brilliant and mysterious as a meteorite she had flashed once across his horizon and was gone.

In the privacy of his stateroom Webster had ham and eggs for breakfast. He was lighting his second cigar when the porter knocked and entered with an envelope.

“Lady in the observation-car asked me to deliver this to you, sah,” he announced importantly.

It 'was a note, freshly written on the train stationery. Webster read:

The distressed lady desires to thank the gentleman in stateroom A for his chivalry of yesterday. She quite realizes that the gentleman's offer to relieve her of the annoyance to which she was being subjected was such a direct expression of his nature and code, that to have declined his aid would have been discourteous, despite her distress at the possible outcome. She is delighted to know that her confidence in the ability of her champion has been fully justified by a swift and sweeping victory, but profoundly sorry that in her service the gentleman in stateroom A was so unfortunate as to acquire a red eye with blue trimmings.

John Stuart Webster swore his mightiest oath, “By the twelve apostles, Simon Peter, Andrew, James, John, Philip, Bartholomew, Matthew, Thomas, James, Jude, and Simon, not omitting Judas Iscariot, the scaly scoundrel who betrayed his Lord and Master!” He searched through an old wallet until he discovered a fairly clean professional card, across the bottom of which he wrote, “Thank you. J. S.W.” and sent it to the no-longer-distressed lady.

“The most signal adventure of my life is now over,” he soliloquized and turned to his cigar. “For the sake of my self-respect, I had to let her know I'm not a hobo! And now to the task of framing up a scheme for future acquaintance. I must learn her name and destination; so as a preliminary I'll interview the train conductor.”

He did, and under the ameliorating influence of a five-dollar bill the conductor bent a respectful ear to the Websterian message.

“In Car Seven,” he began, “there is a young lady. I do not know what section she occupies; neither do I know her name and destination. I only know what she looks like.”

The conductor nodded. “And you want to ascertain her name and destination?”

“I do.”

“Easiest thing in life. There is only one young lady in Car Seven. I suppose you mean that queen with the olive complexion, the green suit, and——”

“Hold! Enough.”

“All right. I have the unused portion of her transportation to return to her before we hit Salt Lake; her name is on the ticket, and the ticket indicates her destination. I'll make a mental note of both as soon as I've identified her ticket.”

“After you've made the said mental note,” Webster pleaded, “be sure you write it down, so you'll not forget.”

A few hours later the conductor came to Webster's stateroom and handed him a card upon which was written:

Dolores Ruey. From Los Angeles, via San Pedro, Los Angeles & Salt Lake, to Salt Lake City, Denver & Rio Grande to Denver, Burlington to St. Louis, Illinois Central to New Orleans. Stop-over at Denver.

John Stuart Webster studied the name after the conductor withdrew. “That's a Spanish name,” he soliloquized, “but for all that, she's not a parakeet. There's something Gaelic about her features, particularly her eyes. They're brown, with golden flecks in them, and if she had a drop of dark blood in her, they'd be smoky and languid. Also if she were a Latin she would have referred to my black eye—whereas she referred to, a red eye with blue trimmings! Same thing but different! All things considered, I guess I'll take a chance and investigate.”