On the Lightship Part 22

"Wattles," cried Mr. Clatfield, "have you gone crazy? I do not want a private secretary on any terms!"

"No," answered Mr. Wattles, "I suppose not."

The lighted trolley cars went shooting past. The wind had risen till the big umbrella of the transfer agent threatened to go sailing skyward like a yellow parachute. Already at the corners the ground was getting white. A m.u.f.fled clock somewhere struck seven.

"Wattles," said Mr. Clatfield, "come home and dine with me. I'd like to talk about our walk."

"I can't to-night," replied the cas.h.i.+er. "I'm going to take dinner with a man named Briggs."

Mr. Clatfield tried to fancy what this Mr. Briggs was like and what his dinner would be like, but in either case failed to make a picture because he never could imagine anything.

"At least come with me to the door," he said.

It was not far to where the iron lions crouched, and presently the two men stood before them shaking hands.

"Good-night," said Mr. Clatfield. "This has been like old times. I suppose you'll not be at the bank to-morrow?"

"I shall be there for an hour perhaps to finish up some work," replied the cas.h.i.+er. "Is there anything I can do?"

He drew a memorandum book from his pocket. Holding the page in the light of a street lamp, his eyes fell on some small, neatly penciled figures.

"By the way," he said, "I have figured out your problem. Ten million one-dollar bills placed end to end would reach one hundred and ten miles, forty-eight hundredths and a fraction."

"Thank you," said Mr. Clatfield.

"In two-cent stamps----" continued the cas.h.i.+er, but his employer interfered.

"Never mind the stamps," he said. "To-morrow, if you have time, I should like you to draw three checks upon my private account."

"Three checks----" repeated Mr. Wattles, preparing to make a note.

"For twenty thousand each--no, make it fifty thousand each."

"For fifty thousand dollars each--and payable to----"

Mr. Clatfield hesitated an instant, then went on desperately:

"One payable to big Mary Ann; one to the preaching fellow, and one--make it out to the girl with the freckles on her nose."

The cas.h.i.+er paused, and for the first time in his long service ventured to dispute instructions.

"Hiram," he said, "what harm have they done you?"

Mr. Clatfield did not answer, but stood in silence, poking his cane into the iron lion's open mouth.

THE GUEST OF HONOR

"Letters of introduction!" Clara sighed. "One can't help wis.h.i.+ng they were made misdemeanors like other lottery tickets." And this being her third remark of kindred import, curiosity became at least excusable. So Mrs. Penfield stroked a sable m.u.f.f in silent sympathy.

"We had one yesterday from Jack's Boston aunt," went on her charming hostess, "a Mrs. Bates, who is continually sending us spiritualists or people who paint miniatures, or Armenian refugees, just because we spent a week or so with her one summer when the children had the mumps. In Lent one does not mind, one rather looks for trials, but now one's dinner-table is really not one's own. Maude, do let me give you another cup of tea; it's awfully bad, I know; we have to buy it from the Dunbar girls. If one's friends would only not sell things one has to drink!"

"Such a delightful little tea-pot would make any tea delicious, I am sure," murmured Mrs. Penfield, and the conversation rested while a noiseless menial entered, put wood upon the fire, and illuminated an electric bulb within an opalescent sh.e.l.l. An odor of cut flowers floated in the air and an exotic whiff of m.u.f.fin.

Mrs. Fessenden, when she had made the tea, sank back once more among the cus.h.i.+ons and stretched her small feet to the blaze.

"I am not at home, Pierre," she announced.

"Perfectly, Madame," replied the menial, as though the absence were self-evident.

Mrs. Penfield mused and sipped.

"Some women are so inconsiderate when they are old," she said remindingly.

"And so are most men when they are young," rejoined the lady of the cus.h.i.+ons, "and Jack, though nice in many ways, is no exception. When I ask him to help by having unexpected men who must be fed to luncheon at the club, he says champagne at midday gives him apoplexy. And so we have to invite an unknown person to our very nicest dinner."

"What unknown person?" inquired Mrs. Penfield, and Clara sighed.

"A Mr. Hopworthy," she replied. "Fancy, if you can, a man named Hopworthy."

Mrs. Penfield tried and failed.

"What is he like?" she asked.

"I haven't an idea. He called here yesterday at three o'clock--fancy a man who calls at three o'clock! and Jack insisted on inviting him for to-morrow night--and I had to give so much thought to to-morrow night!"

"Of course he is coming," put in Mrs. Penfield; "such people never send regrets."

"Or acceptances either, it would seem," returned her friend; "the wretch has not so much as answered, and soon it will be too late to get even an emergency girl."

"Oh, one can always scare up a girl," the other said consolingly.

Pierre entered with a little silver tray.

"A note, if Madame pleases," he announced. Perhaps had Madame pleased a pineapple or a guinea-pig might have been forthcoming. When he had retired, Madame tore open the envelope. A flush of pleasure made her still more charming.

"Hopworthy has been seriously injured!" she cried almost in exultation.

"And how much anxiety you have had for nothing, dear!" said Mrs.

Penfield, rising. "So often things turn out much better than we dare to hope. What does he say?"

"Oh, only this; he writes abominably," and Clara read:

DEAR MRS. FESSENDEN: