Peter Part 9

Jack waited for an instant, and finding that the message was delayed in transmission, helped himself to one of Biff's "Specials"--bearing in gold letters his name "Brent Biffton" in full on the rice paper--dropped into the proffered chair and repeated the question:

"Have you seen Garry?"

"Yes--upstairs. Got a deck in the little room. Been there all afternoon.

Might go up and b.u.t.t in. Touch that bell before you go and say what."

"No--I won't drink anything, if you don't mind. You heard about Garry's winning the prize?"

"No." Biffton hadn't moved since he had elongated his foot in search of Jack's chair.

"Why Garry got first prize in his office. I went with him to the supper; he's with Holker Morris, you know."

"Yes. Rather nice. Yes, I did hear. The fellows blew him off upstairs.

Kept it up till the steward shut 'em out. Awfully clever fellow, Minott.

My Governor wanted me to do something in architecture, but it takes such a lot of time... Funny how a fellow will dress himself." Biffton's sleepy eyes were sweeping the Avenue. "Pendergast just pa.s.sed wearing white spats--A month too late for spats--ought to know better. Touch the bell, Breen, and say what."

Again Jack thanked him, and again Biffton relapsed into silence. Rather a damper on a man of his calibre, when a fellow wouldn't touch a bell and say what.

Jack having a certain timidity about "b.u.t.ting in"--outsiders didn't do such things where he came from--settled himself into the depths of the comfortable leather-covered arm-chair and waited for Garry to finish his game. From where he sat he could not only overlook the small tables holding a choice collection of little tear-bottles, bowls of crushed ice and high-pressure siphons, but his eye also took in the stretch beyond, the club windows commanding the view up and down and quite across the Avenue, as well as the vista to the left.

This outlook was the most valuable a.s.set the Magnolia possessed. If the parasol was held flat, with its back to the club-house, and no glimpse of the pretty face possible, it was, of course, unquestionable evidence to the member looking over the top of his c.o.c.ktail that neither the hour or the place was propitious. If, however, it swayed to the right or left, or better still, was folded tight, then it was equally conclusive that not only was the coast clear, but that any number of things might happen, either at Tiffany's, or the Academy, or wherever else one of those altogether accidental--"Why-who-would-have-thought-of-seeing-you- here" kind of meetings take place--meetings so delightful in themselves because so unexpected.

These outlooks, too, were useful in solving many of the social problems that afflicted the young men about town; the ident.i.ty, for instance, of the occupant of the hansom who had just driven past, heavily veiled, together with her destination and her reason for being out at all; why the four-in-hand went up empty and came back with a pretty woman beside the "Tooler," and then turned up a side street toward the Park, instead of taking the Avenue into its confidence; what the young wife of the old doctor meant when she waved her hand to the occupant of a third-story window, and who lived there, and why--None of their business, of course--never could be--but each and every escapade, incident and adventure being so much thrice-blessed manna to souls stranded in the desert waste of club conversation.

None of these things interested our hero, and he soon found himself listening to the talk at an adjoining table. Topping, a young lawyer, Whitman Bunce, a man of leisure--unlimited leisure--and one or two others, were rewarming some of the day's gossip.

"Had the gall to tell Bob's man he couldn't sleep in linen sheets; had his own violet silk ones in his trunk, to match his pajamas. The goat had 'em out and half on the bed when Bob came in and stopped him. Awful row, I heard, when Mrs. Bob got on to it. He'll never go there again."

"And I heard," broke in Bunce, "that she ordered the trap and sent him back to the station."

Other bits drifted Jack's way:

"Why he was waiting at the stage-door and she slipped out somewhere in front. Billy was with her, so I heard.... When they got to Delmonico's there came near being a sc.r.a.p.... No.... Never had a dollar on Daisy Belle, or any other horse...."

Loud laughter was now heard at the end of the hall. A party of young men had reached the foot of the stairs and were approaching Biffton and Jack. Garry's merry voice led the others.

"Still hard at work, are you, Biffy? Why, h.e.l.lo, Jack!--how long have you been here? Morlon, you know Mr. Breen, don't you?--Yes, of course you do--new member--just elected. Get a move on that carca.s.s of yours, Biffy, and let somebody else get up to that table. Charles, take the orders."

Jack had shaken everybody's hand by this time, Biffton having moved back a foot or two, and the circle had widened so that the poker party could reach their c.o.c.ktails. Garry extended his arm till his hand rested on Jack's shoulder.

"Nothing sets me up like a game of poker, old man. Been on the building all day. You ought to come up with me some time--I'll show you the greatest piece of steel construction you ever saw. Mr. Morris was all over it to-day. Oh, by the way! Did that old chunk of sandstone come up to see you last night? What did you say his name was?"

Jack repeated Peter's cognomen--this time without rolling the syllables under his tongue--said that Mr. Grayson had kept his promise; that the evening had been delightful, and immediately changed the subject. There was no use trying to convert Garry.

"And now tell me about the supper," asked Jack.

"Oh, that was all right. We whooped it up till they closed the bar and then went home with the milk. Had an awful head on me next morning; nearly fell off the scaffold, I was so sleepy. How's Miss Corinne? I'm going to stop in on my way uptown this afternoon and apologize to her.

I have her note, but I haven't had a minute to let her know why I didn't come. I'll show her the ring; then she'll know why. Saw it, didn't you?"

Jack hadn't seen it. He had been too excited to look. Now he examined it. With the flash of the gems Biffy sat up straight, and the others craned their heads. Garry slipped it off his finger for the hundredth time for similar inspections, and Jack utilized the pause in the conversation to say that Corinne had received the note and that in reply she had vented most of her disappointment on himself, a disclosure which sent a cloud across Garry's face.

The c.o.c.ktail hour had now arrived--one hour before dinner, an hour which was fixed by that distinguished compounder of herbs and spirits, Mr.

Biffton--and the room began filling up. Most of the members were young fellows but a few years out of college, men who renewed their Society and club life within its walls; some were from out of town--students in the various professions. Here and there was a man of forty--one even of fifty-five--who preferred the gayer and fresher life of the younger generation to the more solemn conclaves of the more exclusive clubs further up and further down town. As is usual in such combinations, the units forming the whole sought out their own congenial units and were thereafter amalgamated into groups, a cla.s.sification to be found in all clubs the world over. While Biffy and his chums could always be found together, there were other less-fortunate young fellows, not only without coupon shears, but sometimes without the means of paying their dues--who formed a little coterie of their own, and who valued and used the club for what it brought them, their election carrying with it a certain social recognition: it also widened one's circle of acquaintances and, perhaps, of clients.

The sound of loud talking now struck upon Jack's ear. Something more important than the angle of a parasol or the wearing of out-of-date spats was engrossing the attention of a group of young men who had just entered. Jack caught such expressions as--"Might as well have picked his pocket...." "He's flat broke, anyhow...." "Got to sell his house, I hear...."

Then came a voice louder than the others.

"There's Breen talking to Minott and Biffy. He's in the Street; he'll know.... Say, Breen!"

Jack rose to his feet and met the speaker half way.

"What do you know, Breen, about that scoop in gold stock? Heard anything about it? Who engineered it? Charley Gilbert's cleaned out, I hear."

"I don't know anything," said Jack. "I left the office at noon and came up town. Who did you say was cleaned out?"

"Why, Charley Gilbert. You must know him."

"Yes, I know him. What's happened to him?"

"Flat broke--that's what happened to him. Got caught in that gold swindle. The stock dropped out of sight this afternoon, I hear--went down forty points."

Garry crowded his way into the group: "Which Mr. Gilbert?--not Charley M., the--"

"Yes; Sam's just left him. What did he tell you, Sam?"

"Just what you've said--I hear, too, that he has got to stop on his house out in Jersey. Can't finish it and can't pay for what's been done."

Garry gave a low whistle and looked at Jack.

"That's rough. Mr. Morris drew the plan of Gilbert's house himself. I worked on the details."

"Rough!" burst out the first speaker. "I should say it was--might as well have burglared his safe. They have been working up this game for months, so Charley told me. Then they gave out that the lode had petered out and they threw it overboard and everybody with it. They said they tried to find Charley to post him, but he was out of town."

"Who tried?" asked Jack, with renewed interest, edging his way close to the group. It was just as well to know the sheep from the goats, if he was to spend the remainder of his life in the Street.

"That's what we want to know. Thought you might have heard."

Jack shook his head and resumed his seat beside Biffy, who had not moved or shown the slightest interest in the affair. n.o.body could sell Biff any gold stock--nor any other kind of stock. His came on the first of every month in a check from the Trust Company.

For some moments Jack did not speak. He knew young Gilbert, and he knew his young and very charming wife. He had once sat next to her at dinner, when her whole conversation had been about this new home and the keen interest that Morris, a friend of her father's, had taken in it. "Mr.

Breen, you and Miss Corinne must be among our earliest guests," she had said, at which Corinne, who was next to Garry, had ducked her little head in acceptance. This was the young fellow, then, who had been caught in one of the eddies whirling over the sunken rocks of the Street. Not very creditable to his intelligence, perhaps, thought Jack; but, then, again, who had placed them there, a menace to navigation?--and why?

Certainly Peter could not have known everything that was going on around him, if he thought the effort of so insignificant an individual as himself could be of use in clearing out obstructions like these.

Garry noticed the thoughtful expression settling over Jack's face, and mistaking the cause called Charles to take the additional orders.

"Cheer up--try a high-ball, Jack. It's none of your funeral. You didn't scoop Gilbert; we are the worst sufferers. Can't finish his house now, and Mr. Morris is just wild over the design. It's on a ledge of rock overlooking the lake, and the whole thing goes together. We've got the roof on, and from across the lake it looks as if it had grown there. Mr.

Morris repeated the rock forms everywhere. Stunning, I tell you!"