The Lightning Conductor Discovers America Part 9

Pat didn't answer, but had the air of a captain intending to sink with the s.h.i.+p.

"Oh, very well, _I_ shall see this through," remarked our n.o.ble leader.

"One can go anywhere with a Wilmot, even to--the devil!"

That wasn't the way he meant to end his sentence, _bien entendu_. But just then he plumped into a rut like the back door to China or--to the home of that over-painted gentleman inadvertently mentioned.

We've all learned in Latin how easy is the descent to the _second_ abode, but if we hadn't had it sufficiently impressed on our young minds how difficult it is to get out again, we should have had an object lesson watching the Wilmot. Will-_not_ would have been a better name, if you don't mind a pun, for it simply wouldn't and--_didn't_. There it was, stuck in ruts of sand worse than Jack and I ever said bad words about in the Sahara. Ed Caspian and his chauffeur did what the German Kaiser used to say he'd do to win a Cowes yacht race--his d.a.m.nedest. The engine groaned and snorted. You could almost see sweat starting from every valve. Nothing doing but noise! Naturally we were all delighted, because pride and falls go so well together when they're other people's; while as for the poor Hippopotamus, it looked _weeks_ younger, in a minute!

Finally, in the midst of a roar that would have turned an elephant green with envy, the Wilmot's teeth were torn from their sockets--I mean the gears were stripped. That was the end; and all our men, looking hypercritically helpful, ran to the rescue. But there wasn't any rescue.

When everything good had been tried and everything bad said, we had to leave. The Wilmot was left to the mercy of the mosquitoes. Ed Caspian was taken aboard the good s.h.i.+p Grayles-Grice, and Jack and I adopted the chauffeur. Our cars backed out of the worst ruts, and it was a long time before we could turn. There, on the way to Montauk Point, the Wilmot remains to this hour, for it was too late to do anything when we got home to the hotel. I wouldn't "put it past" those mosquitoes to suck off all the paint in the night!

Just here in my budget I was interrupted. Pat tiptoed into the sitting-room, spying my rose-light on the balcony, and whispering my name like a pa.s.sword.

I told you, didn't I, that there was pretty sure to be news at half-past midnight? There _is_--such funny news, entirely different from what I expected!

Peter Storm and Ed Caspian both got telegrams. Peter Storm couldn't understand his. It said, "Can't recall him immediately, but will day after to-morrow. Most inconvenient to have him here now. This will give you one clear day to try your hand on other car."

The mysterious message was signed "L. Shuster," and it was given to Peter as he was about to dance with Pat (it seems he can dance), and seeing him look puzzled she asked politely if anything were wrong. He said he didn't know, and showed her the telegram. She could make no more of it than he could. Then Mr. Caspian appeared with a telegram in his hand. "Have you a wire from Mrs. Shuster?" he wanted to know. Peter didn't deny the soft impeachment. "I'm just wondering," blundered Ed, "if by any chance the lady was absent-minded and mixed the messages?

Some one talking to her while she wrote, perhaps. Will you let me have a look at yours?"

Peter let him have a look; in fact, they exchanged; and Peter read in the one apparently intended for Ed: "Please come home day after to-morrow. Find I need you. L. Shuster."

"I think this _is_ mine," said Ed.

"And probably this is intended for me," said Peter. "Was it the Grayles-Grice you thought of trying your hand on?"

"I told Mrs. Shuster I could drive it for Miss Moore, rather than break up the party if she needed you. She was to let us know--when her plans were settled," explained Ed. And Patsey says he stammered.

"After that affair of the Wilmot this afternoon I shouldn't like to advise Miss Moore to exchange chauffeurs, even for one day," said Peter.

"Mrs. Shuster's very good-natured. I expect she'll wait. If not, she can fill my place with some one else, permanently."

Pat was amused, though I'm not sure she understood the little play of cross-purposes as well as I understand it. And she doesn't seem to attach any importance to that part of the telegram which is the most exciting, to _my_ idea. _Why_ would it be inconvenient for our fair Lily to have her secretary return to-morrow? Something is _up_ at Kidd's Pines! I vaguely suspected as much when she let us come away without her. When Jack wakes I shall ask him what he thinks. Love.

Your affectionate MOLLY.

P. S. Jack thinks something so wild and woolly that I _daren't_ tell you what it is till I know, for fear he's wrong. Much less will I tell Pat.

And we can't know for two or three days unless we abbreviate the trip which all of us would hate to do.

VII

EDWARD CASPIAN TO MRS. L. SHUSTER

_Easthampton,_ _Wednesday morning._

MY DEAR FRIEND:

I know you mean well, and I don't like to scold, but really, _really_ I have a big bone to pick with you! I didn't ask you to _telegraph_. I said _telephone_. I wonder if you ought to consult an aurist, dear lady?

And even if you did misunderstand, you might have concentrated on what you were doing for _five_ minutes, don't you think? I don't wish to be disagreeable, but what you have done has given me a sleepless night.

Several other things have gone wrong, too, but this is the worst, because I'm not sure what the consequences may be. Add to not sleeping the fact that I'm up at an unearthly hour in order to write to you, and to hear news of my Wilmot (which had an accident yesterday), and you will excuse me if I don't trim my sentiments with roses.

Almost the last words you said to me were, "One good turn deserves another." I did you a good turn in speaking of you in a _certain_ way to a _certain_ person, as you asked me to do. It was a pleasure to serve you, because of the grat.i.tude owing you for many past kindnesses when life was something of a struggle for me. Still, you seemed to think the other day that I had paid a good part of the debt, and that it was up to _you_ now. I don't think I should have asked the favour I did ask, if you hadn't offered. We were both pretty frank about what we wanted, and after what pa.s.sed I felt I could count on you, as you could count on me.

All the evening after I'd come in from a disgusting and pointless expedition I expected to be called to the telephone. There was a dance at the hotel which I was unable to enjoy, as I have never learned any of the new dances, and some girls seem to have little appreciation of the higher pleasure of sitting out with a partner of intelligence, not to mention money. By the way, not only did I owe an exceedingly unpleasant adventure with my car to Captain Winston's obstinate determination to see Montauk Point (where there's nothing to see), but I owe him another grudge for upsetting my plans for the night. At dinner, casting his eye round the dining-room, he happened to remark that none of the young men present looked tall enough to act as partners for those beanpole Goodrich girls. "Beanpole" is _my_ expression, not his. "Storm is the right size," he went on meddlesomely, in that calm British way he has of taking it for granted that whatever _he_ says must be right. "I wonder if Storm dances?"

Your errant secretary was dining at another table, by himself, and at some distance from the tables of the rest of the party, who were grouped together in order to talk across. Miss Moore was with the Winstons, and chairs had been reserved for the Morleys; but Mrs. Morley was tired and didn't come down; of course the bridegroom kept her company upstairs; and I was just in time to ask if I might have one of the vacant places, before two of those dreadful boys made a rush for the table. When Miss Moore heard Winston's question about Storm she looked up, apparently in surprise; for though you have made him your secretary and he has been a good deal spoiled by every one at Kidd's Pines and those Awepesha people, _she_ first saw him, you must remember, in his own cla.s.s of life as a steerage pa.s.senger. It must have seemed queer that Winston should expect the man to dance with girls like her and the Goodriches.

Naturally she didn't put her surprise into words. She is too kind-hearted.

If Storm had any conception of what his sphere in society ought to be, he would, when asked, have answered, "I _don't_ dance." He need not have lied and said, "I can't." His conceit is such, however, that he hadn't the grace to keep out of the limelight when it suited his purpose to pose in it. He did dance, not only with the Goodrich girls, but with Miss Moore. Perhaps you can understand why I told you that his being along would spoil this trip for me, and why I asked you as a particular favour to recall him on the excuse of urgent business. I can now drive a Grayles-Grice very well, certainly as well as he can; and my chauffeur could have run him back to you at Kidd's Pines in the Wilmot.

[Ill.u.s.tration: map]*

While I was momentarily expecting a 'phone call, a telegram was brought to me in the ballroom, where I was sitting out some new-fangled thing everybody seemed idiotically wild over. The envelope was addressed to me all right, but I couldn't make head or tail of what was inside until suddenly it popped into my head that you'd been absent-minded and mixed Storm and me. It seemed almost too bad to be true. And worse than all, Storm was in the act of studying his message with the a.s.sistance of Miss Moore. Of course he'd got on to the guiding idea, and probably put her on to it also. The fat is thoroughly in the fire now. Even though I still expect to get news about the man which will queer his pitch considerably (as I prophesied to you), there may be a lingering resentment in Miss Moore's mind against me. She is apt to think, from what Storm will have put into her head, that I might have minded my own business. Little difference is it likely to make with her that I have been and am acting for her good! In that connection, _you_ were more sensible! You refused to discharge the man without proof, but you did pay my judgment the compliment of changing your att.i.tude toward him.

Now, however, it seems to me you have a perfectly good excuse to get rid of him permanently, without regard to my possible discoveries.

Apparently he doesn't intend to obey your order to return, but is determined at any cost to go on to the end, playing the gentleman of leisure who can drive a high-powered motor car while he's being paid for addressing envelopes! A bitter end may it be for him! I shouldn't wonder if it would be. I shall do my best to make it so. It will come at the Piping Rock Club, where _I_ have got an invitation for the members of this party for a dance. If Storm has the cheek to go, his blood be on his own head! The dance is, as Miss Moore says, the "climax" of our tour. I hope it may be so for Storm in _one_ sense of the word, though not in hers.

I have told you before that I can get you a better secretary than he is, at a day's notice; and perhaps you will presently be willing to let me try, now his "eyes alone" don't seem worth the money, as you once thought them. Other eyes are of more importance to you in these days.

Apropos of the latter eyes, I understand why it may have been inconvenient to let Storm come back, but certainly he couldn't have been as much in your way in a big house as he is in mine in a motor car.

I shall travel in the Grayles-Grice in spite of him, as the Wilmot is out of the running for days. But the trip is spoilt.

I felt I must let you know how your mistake has affected me. But I have not ceased to be

Sincerely your friend, E. CASPIAN.

P.S. I am wiring you to send him on the proofs of the new peace tract to correct on the way. That may keep him out of the car a few hours.

VIII

PATRICIA MOORE TO ADRIENNE DE MONCOURT

_Long Island._ _At a Beautiful House_ _Where We Are Guests._

MIGNONNE:

You cannot figure to yourself how the life is wonderful, just after one has thought, "Crack! the sky tumbles!" But yes, you can figure it, because of your adventure at Easter.

I am almost too happy. I live in a story of fairies, and I ask myself, is it too good to last?

You know, cherie, how I loved always to read the books of romance, when we could hide them from our kind Sisters, who think it wrong for the young girls to fill their heads with such thoughts till after the marriage. Since I have left the dear convent, I have read earnestly in journals the writings of critics who live by having opinions about other people. I see by them that romance is not truth. It is only the dull things which are real. Yet for you and me, life is now running like the stories at which these critics laugh the most. That is why I ask myself, "Can such things go on?" For it seems that critics must know better than me (or should I say "I?"). Perhaps they have reason. Perhaps we shall end in a monotony of grayness like the books these wise men and women praise for "the realism." Or we shall fall down, down, in tragedy?--for that, it seems, can also be true to life; only just the _happy_ things are not true. Yet at present let us live joyously for a little while as in one of those dear books we read in secret at school: books of romance and even of mystery.