Children of the Whirlwind. Scott Leroy
in the popular manner—they're too original. But they're great. And you're a great painter. And I want to know—”
“Hurray!” shouted Hunt, and flung an enthusiastic arm about Larry, and began to pound his back. “Oh, boy! Oh, boy!”
Larry wrenched himself free. “Cut that out. Then you admit you're a great painter?”
“Of course I'm a great painter!” shouted Hunt. “Who should know it better than I do?”
“Then what's a great painter doing down here? What's the game you're trying to put over, posing as—”
“Listen, son,” Hunt grinned. “You've called me and I've got to show my cards. Only you mustn't ever tell—nor must Maggie; the Duchess doesn't talk, anyway. No need bothering you just now with a lot of details about myself. It's enough to say that people wouldn't pay me except when I did the usual pretty rot; no one believed in the other stuff I wanted to do. I wanted to get away from that bunch; I wanted to do real studies of human people, with their real nature showing through. So I beat it. Understand so far?”
“But why pose as a dub down here?”
“I never started the yarn that I was a dub. The people who looked at my work, and laughed, started that talk. I didn't shout out that I was a great artist for the mighty good reason that if I had, and had been believed, the people who posed for me either wouldn't have done it or would have been so self-conscious that they would have tried to look like some one else, and would never have shown me themselves at all. Thinking me a joke, they just acted natural. Which, young man, is about all you need to know.”
Maggie looked on breathlessly at the two men, bewildered by this new light in which Hunt was presented, and fascinated by the tense alertness of her hero, Larry.
Slowly Larry's tensity dissipated. “I don't know about the rest of your make-up,” he said slowly, “but as a painter you're a whale.”
“The rest of him's all right, too,” put in the dry, unemotional voice of the Duchess. “Dinner's ready. Come on.”
As they moved to the table Hunt clapped a big hand on Larry's shoulder. “And to think,” he chuckled, “it took a crook fresh from Sing Sing to discover me as a great artist! You're clever, Larry—clever! Maggie, get the corkscrew into action and fill the glasses with the choicest vintage of H2O. A toast. Here's to Larry!”
CHAPTER V
The dinner was simple: beef stewed with potatoes and carrots and onions, and pie, and real coffee. But it measured up to Hunt's boast: the chef of the Ritz, limited to so simple a menu, could indeed have done no better. And Larry, after his prison fare, was dining as dine the gods.
The irrepressible Hunt, trying to read this new specimen that had come under his observation, sought to draw Larry out. “Barney Palmer and Old Jimmie were here this afternoon, wanting to see you. They've got something big waiting for you. I suppose you're all ready to jump in and put it over with a wallop.”
“I'm going to put something over with a wallop—but I guess business will have to wait until Barney, Jimmie, and I have a talk. Can you spare me a little more of that stew?”
His manner of speaking was a quiet announcement to Hunt that his plans were for the present a closed subject. Hunt felt balked, for this lean, alert, much-talked-of adventurer piqued him greatly; but he switched to other subjects, and during the rest of the meal did most of the talking. The Duchess was silent, and seemingly was concerned only with her food. Larry got in a fair portion of speech, but for the most part his attention, except for that required for eating, was fixed upon Maggie.
How she had sprung up since he had last seen her! Almost a woman now—and destined to be a beauty! And more than just a beauty: she was colorful, vital, high-strung. Before he had gone away he had regarded her with something akin to the negligent affection of an older brother. But this thing which was already beginning to surge up in him was altogether different, and he knew it.
As for Maggie, when she looked at him, she flushed and her eyes grew bright. Larry was back!—the brilliant, daring Larry. She was aware that she had been successful in startling and gripping his attention. Yes, they would do great things together!
When the dinner was finished and the dishes washed, Larry gave voice to this new urge that had so quickly grown up within him.
“What do you say, Maggie, to a little walk?”
“All right,” she replied eagerly.
They went down the narrow stairway together. On the landing of the second floor, which contained only Maggie's bedroom and the Duchess's and a tiny kitchen, Maggie started to leave him to change into street clothes; but he caught her arm and said, “Come on.” They descended the next flight and came into the back room behind the pawnshop, which the Duchess used as a combination of sitting-room, office, and storeroom. About this musty museum hung or stood unredeemed seamen's jackets, men and women's evening wear, banjos, guitars, violins, umbrellas, and one huge green stuffed parrot sitting on top of the Duchess's safe.
“I wanted to talk, not walk,” he said. “Let's stay here.”
He took her hands and looked down on her steadily. Under the yellow gaslight her face gleamed excitedly up into his, her breath came quickly.
“Well, sir, what do you think of me?” she demanded. “Have I changed much?”
“Changed? Why, it's magic, Maggie! I left you a schoolgirl; you're a woman now. And a wonder!”
“You think so?” She flushed with pride and pleasure, and a wildness of spirit possessed her and demanded expression in action. She freed her left hand and slipped it over Larry's shoulder. “Come on—let's two-step.”
“But, Maggie, I've forgotten.”
“Come on!”
Instantly she was dragging him over the scanty floor space. But after a moment he halted, protesting.
“These prison brogans were not intended by their builders for such work. If you've got to dance, you'll have to work it out of your system alone.”
“All right!”
At once, in the midst of the dingy room, humming the music, she was doing Carmen's dance—wild, provocative, alluring. It was not a remarkable performance in any professionally technical sense; but it had vivid personality; she was light, lithe, graceful, flashing with color and spirits.
“Maggie!” he exclaimed, when she had finished and stood before him glowing and panting. “Good! Where did you learn that?”
“In the chorus of a cabaret revue.”
“Is that what you're doing now, working in a chorus?”
“No. Barney and father said a chorus was no place for me.” She drew nearer. “Oh, Larry, I've such a lot to tell you.”
“Go on.”
“Well”—she cocked her head impishly—“I've been going to school.”
“Going to school! Where?”
“Lots of places. Just now I'm going to school at the Ritzmore Hotel.”
“At the Ritzmore Hotel!” He stared at her bewildered. “What are you learning there?”
“To be a lady.” She laughed at his increasing bewilderment. “A real lady, Larry,” she went on excitedly. “Oh, it's such a wonderful idea! Father had never seemed to think much of me till the night I went to a masquerade ball with Mr. Hunt, and he and Barney saw me in these clothes. They had never seen me really dressed up before; Barney said