Nothing But the Truth. Isham Frederic Stewart
he even touched up his horse a few inches, to intervene more thoroughly.
“Perhaps now for half a dollar – ” began the commodore, more insinuatingly. Then he groaned: “Too late!” The policeman had lifted the ban. The stately car turned into the avenue and was swallowed up amid a myriad of more or less imposing vehicles. They had, however, received a bow from the occupant. That was all there had been opportunity for. Incidentally, the small boy had bestowed upon them his parting compliments:
“Smart old guy! You think youse – ” The rest was jumbled up or lost in the usual cacophony of the thoroughfare.
“Too bad!” murmured the commodore. “But still these three weeks are young.”
“‘Three weeks!’” observed Dickie. “Sounds like plagiarism!”
“Oh, Bob won’t have that kind of a ‘three weeks,’” snickered Clarence.
“Bob’s will be an expurgated edition,” from the commodore, recovering his spirits.
“Maybe we ought to make it four?”
“Three will do,” said Bob, who wasn’t enjoying this chaffing. Every one they approached he now eyed apprehensively.
But he was a joy-giver, if not receiver, for his tall handsome figure attracted many admiring glances. His striking head with its blond curls – they weren’t exactly curls, only his hair wasn’t straight, but clung rather wavy-like to the bold contour of his head – his careless stride, and that general effect of young masculinity – all this caused sundry humble feminine hearts to go pit-a-pat. Bob’s progress, however, was generally followed by pit-a-pats from shop-girls and bonnet-bearers. Especially at the noon hour! Then Bob seemed to these humble toilers, like dessert, after hard-boiled eggs, stale sandwiches and pickles.
But Bob was quite unaware of any approving glances cast after him. He was thinking, and thinking hard. He wasn’t so sanguine now as he had been when he had left the club. What might have happened at that street corner appealed to him with sudden poignant force. Mrs. Ralston was of the creme de la creme. She was determined to stay young. She pretended to be thirty years or so younger than she was. In fact, she was rather a ridiculous old lady who found it hard to conceal her age. Now what if the commodore had found opportunity to ask that awful question? Bob could have made only one reply and told the truth. The largeness of his contract was becoming more apparent to him. He began to see himself now from Dan’s standpoint. Incidentally, he was beginning to develop a great dislike for that genial land-mariner.
“How about the Waldorf?” They had paused at the corner of Thirty-fourth Street. “May find some one there,” suggested Clarence.
“In Peek-a-Boo Alley?” scornfully from Dickie.
“Oh, I heard there was a concert, or something upstairs,” said Clarence. “In that you’ve-got-to-be-introduced room! And some of the real people have to walk through to get to it.”
Accordingly they entered the Waldorf and the commodore hustled them up and down and around, without, however, their encountering a single “real” person. There were only people present – loads of them, not from somewhere but from everywhere. They did the circuit several times, still without catching sight of a real person.
“Whew! This is a lonesome place!” breathed the commodore at last.
“Let’s depart!” disgustedly from Clarence. “Apologize for steering you into these barren wastes!”
“What’s your hurry?” said Bob, with a little more bravado. Then suddenly he forgot about those other three. His entranced gaze became focused on one. He saw only her.
“Ha!” The commodore’s quick glance, following Bob’s, caught sight, too, of that wonderful face in the distance – the stunning, glowing young figure – that regal dream of just-budded girlhood – that superb vision in a lovely afternoon gown! She was followed by one or two others. One could only imagine her leading. There would, of course, always be several at her either side and quite a number dangling behind. Her lips were like the red rosebuds that swung negligently from her hand as she floated through the crowd. Her eyes suggested veiled dreams amid the confusion and hubbub of a topsyturvy world. She was like something rhythmical precipitated amid chaos. A far-away impression of a smile played around the corners of her proud lips.
The commodore precipitated himself in her direction. Bob put out a hand as if to grasp him by the coat tails, but the other was already beyond reach and Bob’s hand fell to his side. He stood passive. That was his part. Only he wasn’t passive inwardly. His heart was beating wildly. He could imagine himself with her and them – those others in her train – and the conversation that would ensue, for he had no doubt of the commodore’s intentions. Dan was an adept at rounding up people. Bob could see himself at a table participating in the conversation – prepared conversation, some of it! He could imagine the commodore leading little rivulets of talk into certain channels for his benefit. Dan would see to it that they would ask him (Bob) questions, embarrassing ones. That “advice” dad had given him weighed on Bob like a nightmare. Suppose – ghastly thought! – truth compelled him ever to speak of that? And to her! A shiver ran down Bob’s backbone. Nearer she drew – nearer – while Bob gazed as if fascinated, full of rapturous, paradoxical dread. Now the commodore was almost upon her when —
Ah, what was that? An open elevator? – people going in? – She, too, – those with her – Yes – click! a closed door! The radiant vision had vanished, was going upward; Bob breathed again. Think of being even paradoxically glad at witnessing her disappear! Bob ceased now to think; stood as in a trance.
“Why do people go to concerts?” said the commodore in aggrieved tones. “Some queen, that!”
“And got the rocks – or stocks!” from Dickie. “Owns about three of those railroads that are going a-begging nowadays.”
“Wake up, Bobbie!” some one now addressed that abstracted individual.
Bob shook himself.
“Old friend of yours, Miss Gwendoline Gerald, I believe?” said the commodore significantly.
“Yes; I’ve known Miss Gerald for some time,” said Bob coldly.
“‘Known for some time’ – ” mimicked the commodore. “Phlegmatic dog! Well, what shall we do now?”
“Hang around until the concert’s over?” suggested Dickie.
“Hang around nothing!” said the commodore. “It’s one of those classical high-jinks.” Disgustedly. “Lasts so late the sufferers haven’t time for anything after it’s over. Just enough energy left to stagger to their cars and fall over in a comatose condition.”
“Suppose we could go to the bar?”
“Naughty! Naughty!” A sprightly voice interrupted.
The commodore wheeled. “Mrs. Ralston!” he exclaimed gladly.
It was the gorgeous lady of the gorgeous car.
“Just finished my shopping and thought I’d have a look in here,” she said vivaciously.
“Concert, I suppose?” from the commodore, jubilantly.
“Yes. Dubussy. Don’t you adore Dubussy?” with schoolgirlish enthusiasm. Though almost sixty, she had the manners of a “just-come-out.”
“Nothing like it,” lied the commodore.
“Ah, then you, too, are a modern?” gushed the lady.
“I’m so advanced,” said the commodore, “I can’t keep up with myself.”
They laughed. “Ah, silly man!” said the lady’s eyes. Bob gazed at her and the commodore enviously. Oh, to be able once more to prevaricate like that! The commodore had never heard Dubussy in his life. Ragtime and merry hornpipes were his limits. And Mrs. Ralston was going to the concert, it is true, but to hear the music? Ah, no! Her box was a fashionable rendezvous, and from it she could study modernity in hats. Therein, at least, she was a modern of the