The Ne'er-Do-Well. Rex Beach
proposition."
"It certainly sounds engaging," cried Higgins, joyously. "The sight of that money awakens a feeling of loyalty in our breasts. I speak for all when I say we will guard you like a lily as long as your money lasts, Mr. Locke."
"As long as we last," Ringold amended.
"It's a bargain," Locke agreed. "Hereafter I foot the bills. You're my guests for the evening, understand. If you'll agree to keep me company until my ship sails I'll do the entertaining."
"Oh, come now," Anthony struck in. "The fellows are just fooling. You're more than welcome to stay with us if you like, but we can't let you put up for it."
"Why not? We'll make a night of it. I'll show you how we spend money in
St. Louis. I'm too nervous to go to bed."
Anthony protested, insisting that the other should regard himself as the guest of the crowd; but as Locke proved obdurate the question was allowed to drop until later, when Kirk found himself promoted by tacit consent to the position of host for the whole company. This was a little more than he had bargained for, but the sense of having triumphed in a contest of good-fellowship consoled him. Meanwhile, the stranger, despite his avowedly festive spirit, showed a certain reserve.
When the music again struck up he declined to dance, preferring to remain with Higgins in their inconspicuous corner.
"There's a fine fellow," the latter remarked, following his best friend's figure with his eyes, when he and Locke were once more alone. "Sweet nature."
"Anthony? Yes, he looks it."
"He's got just two faults, I always say: he's too modest by far and he's lazy—won't work."
"He doesn't have to work. His old man has plenty of coin, hasn't he?"
"Yes, and he'll keep it, too. Heartless old wretch. Mr.—What's your name, again?"
"Locke."
"Mr. Locke." The speaker stared mournfully at his companion. "D'you know what that unnatural parent did?"
"No."
"He let his only son and heir go to jail."
Mr. Jefferson Locke, of St. Louis, started; his wandering, watchful eyes flew back to the speaker.
"What! Jail?"
"That's what I remarked. He allowed his own flesh and blood to languish in a loathsome cell."
"What for? What did they get him for?" queried the other, quickly.
"Speeding."
"Oh!" Locke let himself back in his chair.
"Yes sir, he's a branded felon."
"Nonsense. That's nothing."
"But we love him just the same, criminal though he is" said Higgins, showing a disposition to weep. "If he were not such a strong, patient soul it might have ruined his whole life."
Mr. Locke grunted.
"S'true! You've no idea the disgrace it is to go to jail."
The Missourian stirred uneasily. "Say, it gets on my nerves to sit still," said he. "Let's move around."
"Patiently! Patiently! Somebody's sure to start something before long."
"Well, I don't care to get mixed up in a row."
Higgins laid a long, white hand upon the speaker's arm. "Then stay with us, Mr.—Locke. If you incline to peace, be one of us. We're a flock of sucking doves."
The dancers came crowding up to the table at the moment, and Ringold suggested loudly: "I'm hungry; let's eat again."
His proposal met with eager response.
"Where shall we go?" asked Anderson.
"I just fixed it with Padden for a private room upstairs," Anthony said. "All the cafes are closed now, and this is the best place in town for chicken creole, anyhow."
Accordingly he led the way, and the rest filed out after him; but as they left the ball-room a medium-sized man who had recently entered from the street caught a glimpse of them, craned his neck for a better view, then idled along behind.
II
THE TRAIL DIVIDES
Inspired by his recent rivalry with Mr. Jefferson Locke, Anthony played the part of host more lavishly than even the present occasion required. He ordered elaborately, and it was not long before corks were popping and dishes rattling quite as if the young men were really hungry. Mr. Locke, however, insisted that his friends should partake of a kind of drink previously unheard of, and with this in view had a confidential chat with the waiter, to whom he unostentatiously handed a five-dollar retainer. No one witnessed this unusual generosity except Higgins, who commended it fondly; but his remarks went unheeded in the general clamor.
The meal was at its noisiest when the man whom Locke had so generously tipped spoke to him quietly. Whatever his words, they affected the listener strongly. Locke's face whitened, then grew muddy and yellow, his hands trembled, his lips went dry. He half arose from his chair, then cast a swift look about the room. His companions were too well occupied, however, to notice this by-play even when the waiter continued, in a low tone:
"He slipped me a ten-spot, so I thought it must be something worth while."
"He—he's alone, you say?"
"Seems to be. What shall I do, sir?"
Locke took something from his pocket and thrust it into the fellow's hand, while the look in his eyes changed to one of desperation.
"Step outside and wait. Don't let him come up. I'll call you in a minute."
Ringold was recounting his version of the first touchdown—how he had been forced inch by inch across the goal line to the tune of thirty thousand yelling throats and his companions were hanging upon his words, when their new friend interrupted in such a tone that Anthony inquired in surprise:
"What's wrong, old man? Are you sick?"
Locke shook his head. "I told you fellows I'd been followed this evening. Remember? Well, there's a man down-stairs who has given the waiter ten dollars to let him have his coat and apron so he can come in here."
"What for?"
"Who is he?"
The men stared at the speaker with a sudden new interest.
"I'm not sure. I—think it's part of a plan to rob me." He let his gaze roam from one face to another. "You see—I just came into a big piece of coin, and I've got it with me. I'm—I'm alone in New York, understand? They've followed me from St. Louis. Now, I want you boys to help me dodge this—"
Kirk Anthony rose suddenly, moving as lightly upon his feet as a dancer.
"You say he's below?"
Locke nodded. It was plain that he was quite unnerved.
Ringold rose in turn and lurched ponderously toward the door, but Kirk stepped in front of him with a sharp word:
"Wait! I'll manage this."
"Lemme go," expostulated the centre-rush. "Locke's a good fellow and this man wants to trim him."
"No, no! Sit down!" Ringold obeyed. "If he wants to join us, we'll have him come up."
"What?" cried Locke, leaping nervously from his chair. "Don't do that.
I want to get out of here."
"Not a bit like it." Kirk's eyes were sparkling. "We'll give this fellow the third degree and