In this pleasant private boarding house they engaged rooms, including
a study for Major Talbot, who was adding the finishing chapters to his
book, _Anecdotes and Reminiscences of the Alabama Army, Bench, and
Bar_.

Major Talbot was of the old, old South. The present day had little
interest or excellence in his eyes. His mind lived in that period
before the Civil War when the Talbots owned thousands of acres of fine
cotton land and the slaves to till them; when the family mansion was
the scene of princely hospitality, and drew its guests from the
aristocracy of the South. Out of that period he had brought all its
old pride and scruples of honor, an antiquated and punctilious
politeness, and (you would think) its wardrobe.

Such clothes were surely never made within fifty years. The Major was
tall, but whenever he made that wonderful, archaic genuflexion he
called a bow, the corners of his frock coat swept the floor. That
garment was a surprise even to Washington, which has long ago ceased
to shy at the frocks and broad-brimmed hats of Southern Congressmen.
One of the boarders christened it a "Father Hubbard," and it certainly
was high in the waist and full in the skirt.

But the Major, with all his queer clothes, his immense area of
plaited, raveling shirt bosom, and the little black string tie with
the bow always slipping on one side, both was smiled at and liked in
Mrs. Vardeman's select boarding house. Some of the young department
clerks would often "string him," as they called it, getting him
started upon the subject dearest to him--the traditions and history of
his beloved Southland. During his talks he would quote freely from the
_Anecdotes and Reminiscences_. But they were very careful not to let
him see their designs, for in spite of his sixty-eight years he could
make the boldest of them uncomfortable under the steady regard of his
piercing gray eyes.

Miss Lydia was a plump, little old maid of thirty-five, with smoothly
drawn, tightly twisted hair that made her look still older.
Old-fashioned, too, she was; but antebellum glory did not radiate from
her as it did from the Major. She possessed a thrifty common sense,
and it was she who handled the finances of the family, and met all
comers when there were bills to pay. The Major regarded board bills
and wash bills as contemptible nuisances. They kept coming in so
persistently and so often. Why, the Major wanted to know, could they
not be filed and paid in a lump sum at some convenient period--say
when the _Anecdotes and Reminiscences_ had been published and paid
for? Miss Lydia would calmly go on with her sewing and say, "We'll pay
as we go as long as the money lasts, and then perhaps they'll have to
lump it."

Most of Mrs. Vardeman's boarders were away during the day, being
nearly all department clerks and business men; but there was one of
them who was about the house a great deal from morning to night. This
was a young man named Henry Hopkins Hargraves--every one in the house
addressed him by his full name--who was engaged at one of the popular
vaudeville theaters. Vaudeville has risen to such a respectable plane
in the last few years, and Mr. Hargraves was such a modest and
well-mannered person, that Mrs. Vardeman could find no objection to
enrolling him upon her list of boarders.

At the theater Hargraves was known as an all-round dialect comedian,
having a large repertoire of German, Irish, Swede, and black-face
specialties. But Mr. Hargraves was ambitious, and often spoke of his
great desire to succeed in legitimate comedy.

This young man appeared to conceive a strong fancy for Major Talbot.
Whenever that gentleman would begin his Southern reminiscences, or
repeat some of the liveliest of the anecdotes, Hargraves could always
be found, the most attentive among his listeners.

For a time the Major showed an inclination to discourage the advances
of the "play actor," as he privately termed him; but soon the young
man's agreeable manner and indubitable appreciation of the old
gentleman's stories completely won him over.

It was not long before the two were like old chums. The Major set
apart each afternoon to read to him the manuscript of his book. During
the anecdotes Hargraves never failed to laugh at exactly the right
point. The Major was moved to declare to Miss Lydia one day that young
Hargraves possessed remarkable perception and a gratifying respect for
the old rГ©gime. And when it came to talking of those old days--if
Major Talbot liked to talk, Mr. Hargraves was entranced to listen.

Like almost all old people who talk of the past, the Major loved to
linger over details. In describing the splendid, almost royal, days of
the old planters, he would hesitate until he had recalled the name of
the negro who held his horse, or the exact date of certain minor
happenings, or the number of bales of cotton raised in such a year;
but Hargraves never grew impatient or lost interest. On the contrary,
he would advance questions on a variety of subjects connected with the
life of that time, and he never failed to extract ready replies.

The fox hunts, the 'possum suppers, the hoe-downs and jubilees in the
negro quarters, the banquets in the plantation-house hall, when
invitations went for fifty miles around; the occasional feuds with the
neighboring gentry; the Major's duel with Rathbone Culbertson about
Kitty Chalmers, who afterward married a Thwaite of South Carolina; and
private yacht races for fabulous sums on Mobile Bay; the quaint
beliefs, improvident habits, and loyal virtues of the old slaves--all
these were subjects that held both the Major and Hargraves absorbed
for hours at a time.

Sometimes, at night, when the young man would be coming upstairs to
his room after his turn at the theater was over, the Major would
appear at the door of his study and beckon archly to him. Going in,
Hargraves would find a little table set with a decanter, sugar bowl,
fruit, and a big bunch of fresh green mint.

"It occurred to me," the Major would begin--he was always
ceremonious--"that perhaps you might have found your duties at the--at
your place of occupation--sufficiently arduous to enable you, Mr.
Hargraves, to appreciate what the poet might well have had in his mind
when he wrote, 'tired Nature's sweet restorer'--one of our Southern
juleps."

It was a fascination to Hargraves to watch him make it. He took rank
among artists when he began, and he never varied the process. With
what delicacy he bruised the mint; with what exquisite nicety he
estimated the ingredients; with what solicitous care he capped the
compound with the scarlet fruit glowing against the dark green fringe!
And then the hospitality and grace with which he offered it, after the
selected oat straws had been plunged into its tinkling depths!

After about four months in Washington, Miss Lydia discovered one
morning that they were almost without money. The _Anecdotes and
Reminiscences_ was completed, but publishers had not jumped at the
collected gems of Alabama sense and wit. The rental of a small house
which they still owned in Mobile was two months in arrears. Their
board money for the month would be due in three days. Miss Lydia
called her father to a consultation.

"No money?" said he with a surprised look. "It is quite annoying to be
called on so frequently for these petty sums, Really, I--"

The Major searched his pockets. He found only a two-dollar bill, which
he returned to his vest pocket.

"I must attend to this at once, Lydia," he said. "Kindly get me my
umbrella and I will go downtown immediately. The congressman from our
district, General Fulghum, assured me some days ago that he would use
his influence to get my book published at an early date. I will go to
his hotel at once and see what arrangement has been made."

With a sad little smile Miss Lydia watched him button his "Father
Hubbard" and depart, pausing at the door, as he always did, to bow
profoundly.

That evening, at dark, he returned. It seemed that Congressman Fulghum
had seen the publisher who had the Major's manuscript for reading.
That person had said that if the anecdotes, etc., were carefully
pruned down about one-half, in order to eliminate the sectional and
class prejudice with which the book was dyed from end to end, he might
consider its publication.

The Major was in a white heat of anger, but regained his equanimity,
according to his code of manners, as soon as he was in Miss Lydia's
presence.

"We must have money," said Miss Lydia, with a little wrinkle above her
nose. "Give me the two dollars, and I will telegraph to Uncle Ralph
for some to-night."

The Major drew a small envelope from his upper vest pocket and tossed
it on the table.

"Perhaps it was injudicious," he said mildly, "but the sum was so
merely nominal that I bought tickets to the theater to-night. It's a
new war drama, Lydia. I thought you would be pleased to witness its
first production in Washington. I am told that the South has very fair
treatment in the play. I confess I should like to see the performance
myself."

Miss Lydia threw up her hands in silent despair.

Still, as the tickets were bought, they might as well be used. So that
evening, as they sat in the theater listening to the lively overture,
even Miss Lydia was minded to relegate their troubles, for the hour,
to second place. The Major, in spotless linen, with his extraordinary
coat showing only where it was closely buttoned, and his white hair
smoothly roached, looked really fine and distinguished. The curtain
went up on the first act of _A Magnolia Flower_, revealing a typical
Southern plantation scene. Major Talbot betrayed some interest.

"Oh, see!" exclaimed Miss Lydia, nudging his arm, and pointing to her
program.

The Major put on his glasses and read the line in the cast of
characters that her fingers indicated.

Col. Webster Calhoun .... Mr. Hopkins Hargraves.

"It's our Mr. Hargraves," said Miss Lydia. "It must be his first
appearance in what he calls 'the legitimate.' I'm so glad for him."

Not until the second act did Col. Webster Calhoun appear upon the
stage. When he made his entry Major Talbot gave an audible sniff,
glared at him, and seemed to freeze solid. Miss Lydia uttered a
little, ambiguous squeak and crumpled her program in her hand. For
Colonel Calhoun was made up as nearly resembling Major Talbot as one
pea does another. The long, thin white hair, curly at the ends, the
aristocratic beak of a nose, the crumpled, wide, raveling shirt front,
the string tie, with the bow nearly under one ear, were almost exactly
duplicated. And then, to clinch the imitation, he wore the twin to the
Major's supposed to be unparalleled coat. High-collared, baggy,
empire-waisted, ample-skirted, hanging a foot lower in front than
behind, the garment could have been designed from no other pattern.
From then on, the Major and Miss Lydia sat bewitched, and saw the
counterfeit presentment of a haughty Talbot "dragged," as the Major
afterward expressed it, "through the slanderous mire of a corrupt
stage."

Mr. Hargraves had used his opportunities well. He had caught the
Major's little idiosyncrasies of speech, accent, and intonation and
his pompous courtliness to perfection--exaggerating all to the purpose
of the stage. When he performed that marvelous bow that the Major
fondly imagined to be the pink of all salutations, the audience sent
forth a sudden round of hearty applause.

Miss Lydia sat immovable, not daring to glance toward her father.
Sometimes her hand next to him would be laid against her cheek, as if
to conceal the smile which, in spite of her disapproval, she could not
entirely suppress.

The culmination of Hargraves audacious imitation took place in the
third act. The scene is where Colonel Calhoun entertains a few of the
neighboring planters in his "den."

Standing at a table in the center of the stage, with his friends
grouped about him, he delivers that inimitable, rambling character
monologue so famous in _A Magnolia Flower_, at the same time that he
deftly makes juleps for the party.

Major Talbot, sitting quietly, but white with indignation, heard his
best stories retold, his pet theories and hobbies advanced and
expanded, and the dream of the _Anecdotes and Reminiscences_ served,
exaggerated and garbled. His favorite narrative--that of his duel with
Rathbone Culbertson--was not omitted, and it was delivered with more
fire, egotism, and gusto than the Major himself put into it.

The monologue concluded with a quaint, delicious, witty little lecture
on the art of concocting a julep, illustrated by the act. Here Major
Talbot's delicate but showy science was reproduced to a hair's
breadth--from his dainty handling of the fragrant weed--"the
one-thousandth part of a grain too much pressure, gentlemen, and you
extract the bitterness, instead of the aroma, of this heaven-bestowed
plant"--to his solicitous selection of the oaten straws.

At the close of the scene the audience raised a tumultuous roar of
appreciation. The portrayal of the type was so exact, so sure and
thorough, that the leading characters in the play were forgotten.
After repeated calls, Hargraves came before the curtain and bowed, his
rather boyish face bright and flushed with the knowledge of success.

At last Miss Lydia turned and looked at the Major. His thin nostrils
were working like the gills of a fish. He laid both shaking hands upon
the arms of his chair to rise.

"We will go, Lydia," he said chokingly. "This is an
abominable--desecration."

Before he could rise, she pulled him back into his seat.

"We will stay it out," she declared. "Do you want to advertise the
copy by exhibiting the original coat?" So they remained to the end.

Hargraves's success must have kept him up late that night, for neither
at the breakfast nor at the dinner table did he appear.

About three in the afternoon he tapped at the door of Major Talbot's
study. The Major opened it, and Hargraves walked in with his hands
full of the morning papers--too full of his triumph to notice anything
unusual in the Major's demeanor.

"I put it all over 'em last night, Major," he began exultantly. "I had
my inning, and, I think, scored. Here's what _The Post_ says:

"'His conception and portrayal of the old-time Southern colonel, with
his absurd grandiloquence, his eccentric garb, his quaint idioms and
phrases, his motheaten pride of family, and his really kind heart,
fastidious sense of honor, and lovable simplicity, is the best
delineation of a character role on the boards to-day. The coat worn by
Colonel Calhoun is itself nothing less than an evolution of genius.
Mr. Hargraves has captured his public.'

"How does that sound, Major, for a first-nighter?"

"I had the honor"--the Major's voice sounded ominously frigid--"of
witnessing your very remarkable performance, sir, last night."

Hargraves looked disconcerted.

"You were there? I didn't know you ever--I didn't know you cared for
the theater. Oh, I say, Major Talbot," he exclaimed frankly, "don't
you be offended. I admit I did get a lot of pointers from you that
helped out wonderfully in the part. But it's a type, you know--not
individual. The way the audience caught on shows that. Half the
patrons of that theater are Southerners. They recognized it."

"Mr. Hargraves," said the Major, who had remained standing, "you have
put upon me an unpardonable insult. You have burlesqued my person,
grossly betrayed my confidence, and misused my hospitality. If I
thought you possessed the faintest conception of what is the sign
manual of a gentleman, or what is due one, I would call you out, sir,
old as I am. I will ask you to leave the room, sir."

The actor appeared to be slightly bewildered, and seemed hardly to
take in the full meaning of the old gentleman's words.

"I am truly sorry you took offense," he said regretfully. "Up here we
don't look at things just as you people do. I know men who would buy
out half the house to have their personality put on the stage so the
public would recognize it."

"They are not from Alabama, sir," said the Major haughtily.

"Perhaps not. I have a pretty good memory, Major; let me quote a few
lines from your book. In response to a toast at a banquet given
in--Milledgeville, I believe--you uttered, and intend to have printed,
these words:

"'The Northern man is utterly without sentiment or warmth except in so
far as the feelings may be turned to his own commercial profit. He
will suffer without resentment any imputation cast upon the honor of
himself or his loved ones that does not bear with it the consequence
of pecuniary loss. In his charity, he gives with a liberal hand; but
it must be heralded with the trumpet and chronicled in brass.'

"Do you think that picture is fairer than the one you saw of Colonel
Calhoun last night?"

"The description," said the Major, frowning, "is--not without grounds.
Some exag--latitude must be allowed in public speaking."

"And in public acting," replied Hargraves.

"That is not the point," persisted the Major, unrelenting. "It was a
personal caricature. I positively decline to overlook it, sir."

"Major Talbot," said Hargraves, with a winning smile, "I wish you
would understand me. I want you to know that I never dreamed of
insulting you. In my profession, all life belongs to me. I take what I
want, and what I can, and return it over the footlights. Now, if you
will, let's let it go at that. I came in to see you about something
else. We've been pretty good friends for some months, and I'm going to
take the risk of offending you again. I know you are hard up for
money--never mind how I found out, a boarding house is no place to
keep such matters secret--and I want you to let me help you out of the
pinch. I've been there often enough myself. I've been getting a fair
salary all the season, and I've saved some money. You're welcome to a
couple hundred--or even more--until you get----"

"Stop!" commanded the Major, with his arm outstretched. "It seems that
my book didn't lie, after all. You think your money salve will heal
all the hurts of honor. Under no circumstances would I accept a loan
from a casual acquaintance; and as to you, sir, I would starve before
I would consider your insulting offer of a financial adjustment of the
circumstances we have discussed. I beg to repeat my request relative
to your quitting the apartment."

Hargraves took his departure without another word. He also left the
house the same day, moving, as Mrs. Vardeman explained at the supper
table, nearer the vicinity of the downtown theater, where _A Magnolia
Flower_ was booked for a week's run.

Critical was the situation with Major Talbot and Miss Lydia. There was
no one in Washington to whom the Major's scruples allowed him to apply
for a loan. Miss Lydia wrote a letter to Uncle Ralph, but it was
doubtful whether that relative's constricted affairs would permit him
to furnish help. The Major was forced to make an apologetic address to
Mrs. Vardeman regarding the delayed payment for board, referring to
"delinquent rentals" and "delayed remittances" in a rather confused
strain.

Deliverance came from an entirely unexpected source.

Late one afternoon the door maid came up and announced an old colored
man who wanted to see Major Talbot. The Major asked that he be sent up
to his study. Soon an old darkey appeared in the doorway, with his hat
in hand, bowing, and scraping with one clumsy foot. He was quite
decently dressed in a baggy suit of black. His big, coarse shoes shone
with a metallic luster suggestive of stove polish. His bushy wool was
gray--almost white. After middle life, it is difficult to estimate the
age of a negro. This one might have seen as many years as had Major
Talbot.

"I be bound you don't know me, Mars' Pendleton," were his first words.

The Major rose and came forward at the old, familiar style of address.
It was one of the old plantation darkeys without a doubt; but they had
been widely scattered, and he could not recall the voice or face.

"I don't believe I do," he said kindly--"unless you will assist my
memory."

"Don't you 'member Cindy's Mose, Mars' Pendleton, what 'migrated
'mediately after de war?"

"Wait a moment," said the Major, rubbing his forehead with the tips of
his fingers. He loved to recall everything connected with those
beloved days. "Cindy's Mose," he reflected. "You worked among the
horses--breaking the colts. Yes, I remember now. After the surrender,
you took the name of--don't prompt me--Mitchell, and went to the
West--to Nebraska."

"Yassir, yassir,"--the old man's face stretched with a delighted
grin--"dat's him, dat's it. Newbraska. Dat's me--Mose Mitchell. Old
Uncle Mose Mitchell, dey calls me now. Old mars', your pa, gimme a pah
of dem mule colts when I lef' fur to staht me goin' with. You 'member
dem colts, Mars' Pendleton?"

"I don't seem to recall the colts," said the Major. "You know. I was
married the first year of the war and living at the old Follinsbee
place. But sit down, sit down, Uncle Mose. I'm glad to see you. I hope
you have prospered."

Uncle Mose took a chair and laid his hat carefully on the floor beside
it.

"Yessir; of late I done mouty famous. When I first got to Newbraska,
dey folks come all roun' me to see dem mule colts. Dey ain't see no
mules like dem in Newbraska. I sold dem mules for three hundred
dollars. Yessir--three hundred.

"Den I open a blacksmith shop, suh, and made some money and bought
some lan'. Me and my old 'oman done raised up seb'm chillun, and all
doin' well 'cept two of 'em what died. Fo' year ago a railroad come
along and staht a town slam ag'inst my lan', and, suh, Mars'
Pendleton, Uncle Mose am worth leb'm thousand dollars in money,
property, and lan'."

"I'm glad to hear it," said the Major heartily. "Glad to hear it."

"And dat little baby of yo'n, Mars' Pendleton--one what you name Miss
Lyddy--I be bound dat little tad done growed up tell nobody wouldn't
know her."

The Major stepped to the door and called: "Lydie, dear, will you
come?"

Miss Lydia, looking quite grown up and a little worried, came in from
her room.

"Dar, now! What'd I tell you? I knowed dat baby done be plum growed
up. You don't 'member Uncle Mose, child?"

"This is Aunt Cindy's Mose, Lydia," explained the Major. "He left
Sunnymead for the West when you were two years old."

"Well," said Miss Lydia, "I can hardly be expected to remember you,
Uncle Mose, at that age. And, as you say, I'm 'plum growed up,' and
was a blessed long time ago. But I'm glad to see you, even if I can't
remember you."

And she was. And so was the Major. Something alive and tangible had
come to link them with the happy past. The three sat and talked over
the olden times, the Major and Uncle Mose correcting or prompting each
other as they reviewed the plantation scenes and days.

The Major inquired what the old man was doing so far from his home.

"Uncle Mose am a delicate," he explained, "to de grand Baptis'
convention in dis city. I never preached none, but bein' a residin'
elder in de church, and able fur to pay my own expenses, dey sent me
along."

"And how did you know we were in Washington?" inquired Miss Lydia.

"Dey's a cullud man works in de hotel whar I stops, what comes from
Mobile. He told me he seen Mars' Pendleton comin' outen dish here
house one mawnin'.

"What I come fur," continued Uncle Mose, reaching into his
pocket--"besides de sight of home folks--was to pay Mars' Pendleton
what I owes him.

"Yessir--three hundred dollars." He handed the Major a roll of bills.
"When I lef' old mars' says: 'Take dem mule colts, Mose, and, if it be
so you gits able, pay fur 'em.' Yessir--dem was his words. De war had
done lef' old mars' po' hisself. Old mars' bein' long ago dead, de
debt descends to Mars' Pendleton. Three hundred dollars. Uncle Mose is
plenty able to pay now. When dat railroad buy my lan' I laid off to
pay fur dem mules. Count de money, Mars' Pendleton. Dat's what I sold
dem mules fur. Yessir."

Tears were in Major Talbot's eyes. He took Uncle Mose's hand and laid
his other upon his shoulder.

"Dear, faithful, old servitor," he said in an unsteady voice, "I don't
mind saying to you that 'Mars' Pendleton spent his last dollar in the
world a week ago. We will accept this money, Uncle Mose, since, in a
way, it is a sort of payment, as well as a token of the loyalty and
devotion of the old rГ©gime. Lydia, my dear, take the money. You are
better fitted than I to manage its expenditure."

"Take it, honey," said Uncle Mose. "Hit belongs to you. Hit's Talbot
money."

After Uncle Mose had gone, Miss Lydia had a good cry---for joy; and
the Major turned his face to a corner, and smoked his clay pipe
volcanically.

The succeeding days saw the Talbots restored to peace and ease. Miss
Lydia's face lost its worried look. The major appeared in a new frock
coat, in which he looked like a wax figure personifying the memory of
his golden age. Another publisher who read the manuscript of the
_Anecdotes and Reminiscences_ thought that, with a little retouching
and toning down of the high lights, he could make a really bright and
salable volume of it. Altogether, the situation was comfortable, and
not without the touch of hope that is often sweeter than arrived
blessings.

One day, about a week after their piece of good luck, a maid brought a
letter for Miss Lydia to her room. The postmark showed that it was
from New York. Not knowing any one there, Miss Lydia, in a mild
flutter of wonder, sat down by her table and opened the letter with
her scissors. This was what she read:

DEAR MISS TALBOT:

I thought you might be glad to learn of my good fortune. I have
received and accepted an offer of two hundred dollars per week by a
New York stock company to play Colonel Calhoun in _A Magnolia Flower_.

There is something else I wanted you to know. I guess you'd better not
tell Major Talbot. I was anxious to make him some amends for the great
help he was to me in studying the part, and for the bad humor he was
in about it. He refused to let me, so I did it anyhow. I could easily
spare the three hundred.

Sincerely yours,
H. HOPKINS HARGRAVES.

P.S. How did I play Uncle Mose?

Major Talbot, passing through the hall, saw Miss Lydia's door open and
stopped.

"Any mail for us this morning, Lydia, dear?" he asked.

Miss Lydia slid the letter beneath a fold of her dress.

"_The Mobile Chronicle_ came," she said promptly. "It's on the table
in your study."



BARGAIN DAY AT TUTT HOUSE

By George Randolph Chester (1869- )

[From McClure's Magazine, June, 1905; copyright, 1905, by the S.S.
McClure Co.; republished by the author's permission.]

I

Just as the stage rumbled over the rickety old bridge, creaking and
groaning, the sun came from behind the clouds that had frowned all the
way, and the passengers cheered up a bit. The two richly dressed
matrons who had been so utterly and unnecessarily oblivious to the
presence of each other now suspended hostilities for the moment by
mutual and unspoken consent, and viewed with relief the little,
golden-tinted valley and the tree-clad road just beyond. The
respective husbands of these two ladies exchanged a mere glance, no
more, of comfort. They, too, were relieved, though more by the
momentary truce than by anything else. They regretted very much to be
compelled to hate each other, for each had reckoned up his vis-Г -vis
as a rather proper sort of fellow, probably a man of some achievement,
used to good living and good company.

Extreme iciness was unavoidable between them, however. When one
stranger has a splendidly preserved blonde wife and the other a
splendidly preserved brunette wife, both of whom have won social
prominence by years of hard fighting and aloofness, there remains
nothing for the two men but to follow the lead, especially when
directly under the eyes of the leaders.

The son of the blonde matron smiled cheerfully as the welcome light
flooded the coach.

He was a nice-looking young man, of about twenty-two, one might judge,
and he did his smiling, though in a perfectly impersonal and correct
sort of manner, at the pretty daughter of the brunette matron. The
pretty daughter also smiled, but her smile was demurely directed at
the trees outside, clad as they were in all the flaming glory of their
autumn tints, glistening with the recent rain and dripping with gems
that sparkled and flashed in the noonday sun as they fell.

It is marvelous how much one can see out of the corner of the eye,
while seeming to view mere scenery.

The driver looked down, as he drove safely off the bridge, and shook
his head at the swirl of water that rushed and eddied, dark and muddy,
close up under the rotten planking; then he cracked his whip, and the
horses sturdily attacked the little hill.

Thick, overhanging trees on either side now dimmed the light again,
and the two plump matrons once more glared past the opposite
shoulders, profoundly unaware of each other. The husbands took on the
politely surly look required of them. The blonde son's eyes still
sought the brunette daughter, but it was furtively done and quite
unsuccessfully, for the daughter was now doing a little glaring on her
own account. The blonde matron had just swept her eyes across the
daughter's skirt, estimating the fit and material of it with contempt
so artistically veiled that it could almost be understood in the dark.



II


The big bays swung to the brow of the hill with ease, and dashed into
a small circular clearing, where a quaint little two-story building,
with a mossy watering-trough out in front, nestled under the shade of
majestic old trees that reared their brown and scarlet crowns proudly
into the sky. A long, low porch ran across the front of the structure,
and a complaining sign hung out announcing, in dim, weather-flecked
letters on a cracked board, that this was the "Tutt House." A
gray-headed man, in brown overalls and faded blue jumper, stood on the
porch and shook his fist at the stage as it whirled by.

"What a delightfully old-fashioned inn!" exclaimed the pretty
daughter. "How I should like to stop there over night!"

"You would probably wish yourself away before morning, Evelyn,"
replied her mother indifferently. "No doubt it would be a mere siege
of discomfort."

The blonde matron turned to her husband. The pretty daughter had been
looking at the picturesque "inn" between the heads of this lady and
her son.

"Edward, please pull down the shade behind me," she directed. "There
is quite a draught from that broken window."

The pretty daughter bit her lip. The brunette matron continued to
stare at the shade in the exact spot upon which her gaze had been
before directed, and she never quivered an eyelash. The young man
seemed very uncomfortable, and he tried to look his apologies to the
pretty daughter, but she could not see him now, not even if her eyes
had been all corners.

They were bowling along through another avenue of trees when the
driver suddenly shouted, "Whoa there!"

The horses were brought up with a jerk that was well nigh fatal to the
assortment of dignity inside the coach. A loud roaring could be heard,
both ahead and in the rear, a sharp splitting like a fusillade of
pistol shots, then a creaking and tearing of timbers. The driver bent
suddenly forward.

"Gid ap!" he cried, and the horses sprang forward with a lurch. He
swung them around a sharp bend with a skillful hand and poised his
weight above the brake as they plunged at terrific speed down a steep
grade. The roaring was louder than ever now, and it became deafening
as they suddenly emerged from the thick underbrush at the bottom of
the declivity.

"Caught, by gravy!" ejaculated the driver, and, for the second time,
he brought the coach to an abrupt stop.

"Do see what is the matter, Ralph," said the blonde matron
impatiently.

Thus commanded, the young man swung out and asked the driver about it.

"Paintsville dam's busted," he was informed. "I been a-lookin' fer it
this many a year, an' this here freshet done it. You see the holler
there? Well, they's ten foot o' water in it, an' it had ort to be
stone dry. The bridge is tore out behind us, an' we're stuck here till
that water runs out. We can't git away till to-morry, anyways."

He pointed out the peculiar topography of the place, and Ralph got
back in the coach.

"We're practically on a flood-made island," he exclaimed, with one eye
on the pretty daughter, "and we shall have to stop over night at that
quaint, old-fashioned inn we passed a few moments ago."

The pretty daughter's eyes twinkled, and he thought he caught a swift,
direct gleam from under the long lashes--but he was not sure.

"Dear me, how annoying," said the blonde matron, but the brunette
matron still stared, without the slightest trace of interest in
anything else, at the infinitesimal spot she had selected on the
affronting window-shade.

The two men gave sighs of resignation, and cast carefully concealed
glances at each other, speculating on the possibility of a cigar and a
glass, and maybe a good story or two, or possibly even a game of poker
after the evening meal. Who could tell what might or might not happen?



III


When the stage drew up in front of the little hotel, it found Uncle
Billy Tutt prepared for his revenge. In former days the stage had
always stopped at the Tutt House for the noonday meal. Since the new
railway was built through the adjoining county, however, the stage
trip became a mere twelve-mile, cross-country transfer from one
railroad to another, and the stage made a later trip, allowing the
passengers plenty of time for "dinner" before they started. Day after
day, as the coach flashed by with its money-laden passengers, Uncle
Billy had hoped that it would break down. But this was better, much
better. The coach might be quickly mended, but not the flood.

"I'm a-goin' t' charge 'em till they squeal," he declared to the
timidly protesting Aunt Margaret, "an' then I'm goin' t' charge 'em a
least mite more, drat 'em!"

He retreated behind the rough wooden counter that did duty as a desk,
slammed open the flimsy, paper-bound "cash book" that served as a
register, and planted his elbows uncompromisingly on either side of
it.

"Let 'em bring in their own traps," he commented, and Aunt Margaret
fled, ashamed and conscience-smitten, to the kitchen. It seemed awful.

The first one out of the coach was the husband of the brunette matron,
and, proceeding under instructions, he waited neither for luggage nor
women folk, but hurried straight into the Tutt House. The other man
would have been neck and neck with him in the race, if it had not been
that he paused to seize two suitcases and had the misfortune to drop
one, which burst open and scattered a choice assortment of lingerie
from one end of the dingy coach to the other.

In the confusion of rescuing the fluffery, the owner of the suitcase
had to sacrifice her hauteur and help her husband and son block up the
aisle, while the other matron had the ineffable satisfaction of being
_kept waiting_, at last being enabled to say, sweetly and with the
most polite consideration:

"Will you kindly allow me to pass?"

The blonde matron raised up and swept her skirts back perfectly flat.
She was pale but collected. Her husband was pink but collected. Her
son was crimson and uncollected. The brunette daughter could not have
found an eye anywhere in his countenance as she rustled out after her
mother.

"I do hope that Belmont has been able to secure choice quarters," the
triumphing matron remarked as her daughter joined her on the ground.
"This place looked so very small that there can scarcely be more than
one comfortable suite in it."

It was a vital thrust. Only a splendidly cultivated self-control
prevented the blonde matron from retaliating upon the unfortunate who
had muddled things. Even so, her eyes spoke whole shelves of volumes.

The man who first reached the register wrote, in a straight black
scrawl, "J. Belmont Van Kamp, wife, and daughter." There being no
space left for his address, he put none down.

"I want three adjoining rooms, en suite if possible," he demanded.

"Three!" exclaimed Uncle Billy, scratching his head. "Won't two do ye?
I ain't got but six bedrooms in th' house. Me an' Marg't sleeps in
one, an' we're a-gittin' too old fer a shake-down on th' floor. I'll
have t' save one room fer th' driver, an' that leaves four. You take
two now---"

Mr. Van Kamp cast a hasty glance out of the window, The other man was
getting out of the coach. His own wife was stepping on the porch.

"What do you ask for meals and lodging until this time to-morrow?" he
interrupted.

The decisive moment had arrived. Uncle Billy drew a deep breath.

"Two dollars a head!" he defiantly announced. There! It was out! He
wished Margaret had stayed to hear him say it.

The guest did not seem to be seriously shocked, and Uncle Billy was
beginning to be sorry he had not said three dollars, when Mr. Van Kamp
stopped the landlord's own breath.

"I'll give you fifteen dollars for the three best rooms in the house,"
he calmly said, and Landlord Tutt gasped as the money fluttered down
under his nose.

"Jis' take yore folks right on up, Mr. Kamp," said Uncle Billy,
pouncing on the money. "Th' rooms is th' three right along th' hull
front o' th' house. I'll be up and make on a fire in a minute. Jis'
take th' _Jonesville Banner_ an' th' _Uticky Clarion_ along with ye."

As the swish of skirts marked the passage of the Van Kamps up the wide
hall stairway, the other party swept into the room.

The man wrote, in a round flourish, "Edward Eastman Ellsworth, wife,
and son."

"I'd like three choice rooms, en suite," he said.

"Gosh!" said Uncle Billy, regretfully. "That's what Mr. Kamp wanted,
fust off, an' he got it. They hain't but th' little room over th'
kitchen left. I'll have to put you an' your wife in that, an' let your
boy sleep with th' driver."

The consternation in the Ellsworth party was past calculating by any
known standards of measurement. The thing was an outrage! It was not
to be borne! They would not submit to it!

Uncle Billy, however, secure in his mastery of the situation, calmly
quartered them as he had said. "An' let 'em splutter all they want
to," he commented comfortably to himself.



IV


The Ellsworths were holding a family indignation meeting on the broad
porch when the Van Ramps came contentedly down for a walk, and brushed
by them with unseeing eyes.

"It makes a perfectly fascinating suite," observed Mrs. Van Kamp, in a
pleasantly conversational tone that could be easily overheard by
anyone impolite enough to listen. "That delightful old-fashioned
fireplace in the middle apartment makes it an ideal sitting-room, and
the beds are so roomy and comfortable."

"I just knew it would be like this!" chirruped Miss Evelyn. "I
remarked as we passed the place, if you will remember, how charming it
would be to stop in this dear, quaint old inn over night. All my
wishes seem to come true this year."

These simple and, of course, entirely unpremeditated remarks were as
vinegar and wormwood to Mrs. Ellsworth, and she gazed after the
retreating Van Kamps with a glint in her eye that would make one
understand Lucretia Borgia at last.

Her son also gazed after the retreating Van Kamp. She had an exquisite
figure, and she carried herself with a most delectable grace. As the
party drew away from the inn she dropped behind the elders and
wandered off into a side path to gather autumn leaves.

Ralph, too, started off for a walk, but naturally not in the same
direction.

"Edward!" suddenly said Mrs. Ellsworth. "I want you to turn those
people out of that suite before night!"

"Very well," he replied with a sigh, and got up to do it. He had
wrecked a railroad and made one, and had operated successful corners
in nutmegs and chicory. No task seemed impossible. He walked in to see
the landlord.

"What are the Van Kamps paying you for those three rooms?" he asked.

"Fifteen dollars," Uncle Billy informed him, smoking one of Mr. Van
Kamp's good cigars and twiddling his thumbs in huge content.

"I'll give you thirty for them. Just set their baggage outside and
tell them the rooms are occupied."

"No sir-ree!" rejoined Uncle Billy. "A bargain's a bargain, an' I
allus stick to one I make."

Mr. Ellsworth withdrew, but not defeated. He had never supposed that
such an absurd proposition would be accepted. It was only a feeler,
and he had noticed a wince of regret in his landlord. He sat down on
the porch and lit a strong cigar. His wife did not bother him. She
gazed complacently at the flaming foliage opposite, and allowed him to
think. Getting impossible things was his business in life, and she had
confidence in him.

"I want to rent your entire house for a week," he announced to Uncle
Billy a few minutes later. It had occurred to him that the flood might
last longer than they anticipated.

Uncle Billy's eyes twinkled.

"I reckon it kin be did," he allowed. "I reckon a _ho_-tel man's got a
right to rent his hull house ary minute."

"Of course he has. How much do you want?"

Uncle Billy had made one mistake in not asking this sort of folks
enough, and he reflected in perplexity.

"Make me a offer," he proposed. "Ef it hain't enough I'll tell ye. You
want to rent th' hull place, back lot an' all?"

"No, just the mere house. That will be enough," answered the other
with a smile. He was on the point of offering a hundred dollars, when
he saw the little wrinkles about Mr. Tutt's eyes, and he said
seventy-five.

"Sho, ye're jokin'!" retorted Uncle Billy. He had been considered a
fine horse-trader in that part of the country. "Make it a hundred and
twenty-five, an' I'll go ye."

Mr. Ellsworth counted out some bills.

"Here's a hundred," he said. "That ought to be about right."

"Fifteen more," insisted Uncle Billy.

With a little frown of impatience the other counted off the extra
money and handed it over. Uncle Billy gravely handed it back.

"Them's the fifteen dollars Mr. Kamp give me," he explained. "You've
got the hull house fer a week, an' o' course all th' money that's
tooken in is your'n. You kin do as ye please about rentin' out rooms
to other folks, I reckon. A bargain's a bargain, an' I allus stick to
one I make."



V


Ralph Ellsworth stalked among the trees, feverishly searching for
squirrels, scarlet leaves, and the glint of a brown walking-dress,
this last not being so easy to locate in sunlit autumn woods. Time
after time he quickened his pace, only to find that he had been fooled
by a patch of dogwood, a clump of haw bushes or even a leaf-strewn
knoll, but at last he unmistakably saw the dress, and then he slowed
down to a careless saunter.

She was reaching up for some brilliantly colored maple leaves, and was
entirely unconscious of his presence, especially after she had seen
him. Her pose showed her pretty figure to advantage, but, of course,
she did not know that. How should she?

Ralph admired the picture very much. The hat, the hair, the gown, the
dainty shoes, even the narrow strip of silken hose that was revealed
as she stood a-uptoe, were all of a deep, rich brown that proved an
exquisite foil for the pink and cream of her cheeks. He remembered
that her eyes were almost the same shade, and wondered how it was that
women-folk happened on combinations in dress that so well set off
their natural charms. The fool!

He was about three trees away, now, and a panic akin to that which
hunters describe as "buck ague" seized him. He decided that he really
had no excuse for coming any nearer. It would not do, either, to be
seen staring at her if she should happen to turn her head, so he
veered off, intending to regain the road. It would be impossible to do
this without passing directly in her range of vision, and he did not
intend to try to avoid it. He had a fine, manly figure of his own.

He had just passed the nearest radius to her circle and was proceeding
along the tangent that he had laid out for himself, when the unwitting
maid looked carefully down and saw a tangle of roots at her very feet.
She was so unfortunate, a second later, as to slip her foot in this
very tangle and give her ankle ever so slight a twist.

"Oh!" cried Miss Van Kamp, and Ralph Ellsworth flew to the rescue. He
had not been noticing her at all, and yet he had started to her side
before she had even cried out, which was strange. She had a very
attractive voice.

"May I be of assistance?" he anxiously inquired.

"I think not, thank you," she replied, compressing her lips to keep
back the intolerable pain, and half-closing her eyes to show the fine
lashes. Declining the proffered help, she extricated her foot, picked
up her autumn branches, and turned away. She was intensely averse to
anything that could be construed as a flirtation, even of the mildest,
he could certainly see that. She took a step, swayed slightly, dropped
the leaves, and clutched out her hand to him.

"It is nothing," she assured him in a moment, withdrawing the hand
after he had held it quite long enough. "Nothing whatever. I gave my
foot a slight wrench, and turned the least bit faint for a moment."

"You must permit me to walk back, at least to the road, with you," he
insisted, gathering up her armload of branches. "I couldn't think of
leaving you here alone."

As he stooped to raise the gay woodland treasures he smiled to
himself, ever so slightly. This was not _his_ first season out,
either.

"Delightful spot, isn't it?" he observed as they regained the road and
sauntered in the direction of the Tutt House.

"Quite so," she reservedly answered. She had noticed that smile as he
stooped. He must be snubbed a little. It would be so good for him.

"You don't happen to know Billy Evans, of Boston, do you?" he asked.

"I think not. I am but very little acquainted in Boston."

"Too bad," he went on. "I was rather in hopes you knew Billy. All
sorts of a splendid fellow, and knows everybody."

"Not quite, it seems," she reminded him, and he winced at the error.
In spite of the sly smile that he had permitted to himself, he was
unusually interested.

He tried the weather, the flood, the accident, golf, books and three
good, substantial, warranted jokes, but the conversation lagged in
spite of him. Miss Van Kamp would not for the world have it understood
that this unconventional meeting, made allowable by her wrenched
ankle, could possibly fulfill the functions of a formal introduction.

"What a ripping, queer old building that is!" he exclaimed, making one
more brave effort as they came in sight of the hotel.

"It is, rather," she assented. "The rooms in it are as quaint and
delightful as the exterior, too."

She looked as harmless and innocent as a basket of peaches as she said
it, and never the suspicion of a smile deepened the dimple in the
cheek toward him. The smile was glowing cheerfully away inside,
though. He could feel it, if he could not see it, and he laughed
aloud.

"Your crowd rather got the better of us there," he admitted with the
keen appreciation of one still quite close to college days.

"Of course, the mater is furious, but I rather look on it as a lark."

She thawed like an April icicle.

"It's perfectly jolly," she laughed with him. "Awfully selfish of us,
too, I know, but such loads of fun."

They were close to the Tutt House now, and her limp, that had entirely
disappeared as they emerged from the woods, now became quite
perceptible. There might be people looking out of the windows, though
it is hard to see why that should affect a limp.

Ralph was delighted to find that a thaw had set in, and he made one
more attempt to establish at least a proxy acquaintance.

"You don't happen to know Peyson Kingsley, of Philadelphia, do you?"

"I'm afraid I don't," she replied. "I know so few Philadelphia people,
you see." She was rather regretful about it this time. He really was a
clever sort of a fellow, in spite of that smile.

The center window in the second floor of the Tutt House swung open,
its little squares of glass flashing jubilantly in the sunlight. Mrs.
Ellsworth leaned out over the sill, from the quaint old sitting-room
of the _Van Kamp apartments_!

"Oh, Ralph!" she called in her most dulcet tones. "Kindly excuse
yourself and come right on up to our suite for a few moments!"



VI


It is not nearly so easy to take a practical joke as to perpetrate
one. Evelyn was sitting thoughtfully on the porch when her father and
mother returned. Mrs. Ellsworth was sitting at the center window
above, placidly looking out. Her eyes swept carelessly over the Van
Kamps, and unconcernedly passed on to the rest of the landscape.

Mrs. Van Kamp gasped and clutched the arm of her husband. There was no
need. He, too, had seen the apparition. Evelyn now, for the first
time, saw the real humor of the situation. She smiled as she thought
of Ralph. She owed him one, but she never worried about her debts. She
always managed to get them paid, principal and interest.

Mr. Van Kamp suddenly glowered and strode into the Tutt House. Uncle
Billy met him at the door, reflectively chewing a straw, and handed
him an envelope. Mr. Van Kamp tore it open and drew out a note. Three
five-dollar bills came out with it and fluttered to the porch floor.
This missive confronted him:

MR. J. BELMONT VAN KAMP,

DEAR SIR: This is to notify you that I have rented the entire Tutt
House for the ensuing week, and am compelled to assume possession of
the three second-floor front rooms. Herewith I am enclosing the
fifteen dollars you paid to secure the suite. You are quite welcome to
make use, as my guest, of the small room over the kitchen. You will
find your luggage in that room. Regretting any inconvenience that this
transaction may cause you, I am,

Yours respectfully,
EDWARD EASTMAN ELLSWORTH.

Mr. Van Kamp passed the note to his wife and sat down or a large
chair. He was glad that the chair was comfortable and roomy. Evelyn
picked up the bills and tucked them into her waist. She never
overlooked any of her perquisites. Mrs. Van Kamp read the note, and
the tip of her nose became white. She also sat down, but she was the
first to find her voice.