The Dude Wrangler Part 2

That's a lovely piece of Battenburg, Mrs. Stott. When did you start it?"

"Last month, but I've been so busy with teas and parties--so many, many things going on. Don't you think it will make a lovely dresser-scarf?

What would you line it with?"

"Pink, absolutely--that delicate shade like the inside of a sea-sh.e.l.l."

"You _are_ such an artist, Wallie! Your taste is perfect."

Wallie did not contradict her.

Strictly, Mrs. Stott did not belong in the group in which she was seated. She had been coming to The Colonial only eleven years, so really, she should have been on the other side of the veranda, but Mrs.

Stott had such an insidious way of getting where and what she wanted that she was "one of them" almost before they knew it.

Mr. Stott was a rising young attorney of forty-eight, and it was antic.i.p.ated that he would one day be a leading trial lawyer because of his aggressiveness.

Wallie's voice took on a sympathetic tone. He stopped in front of a chair where a very thin young lady was reclining languidly.

"How's the bad heart to-day, Miss Eyester?"

"About as usual, Wallie, thank you," she replied, gratefully.

"Your lips have more colour."

Miss Eyester opened a handbag and, taking out a small, round mirror which she carried for the purpose, inspected her lips critically.

"It does seem so," she admitted. "If I can just keep from getting excited."

"I can't imagine a better place than The Colonial." The reply contained a grain of irony.

"That's why I come here," Miss Eyester sighed, "though I'm _pining_ to go somewhere livelier."

Wallie wagged his head playfully.

"Treason! Treason! Why, you've been coming here for--" Miss Eyester's alarmed expression caused him to finish lamely--"for ever so long."

"Wallie!" It was his aunt's voice calling and he went instantly to a tall, austere lady in a linen collar who was knitting wash-rags with the feverish haste of a piece-worker in a factory.

He stood before her obediently.

"Don't go in to-day."

"_Why_, Auntie?" In his voice there was a world of disappointment.

"It's too rough--there must have been a storm at sea."

"But, Auntie," he protested, "I missed yesterday, taking Mrs. Appel to the auction. It isn't very rough----"

"Look at the white-caps," she interrupted, curtly, "I don't want you to go, Wallie."

"Oh, very well." He turned away abruptly, wondering if she realized how keenly he was disappointed--a disappointment that was not made less by the fact that her fears were groundless, since not only was it not "rough" but he was an excellent swimmer.

"The girl from Wyoming," as he called Miss Spenceley to himself, had overheard and was looking at him with an expression in her eyes which made him redden. It was mocking; she was laughing at him for being told not to go in bathing, as if he were a child of seven.

He sauntered past her, humming, to let her know that he did not care what she thought about him. When he turned around she had vanished and a few minutes after he saw her with her suit over her arm on the way to the bath-house on the exclusive beach in front of The Colonial.

CHAPTER III

"PINKEY"

The train upon which Will Smith was expected was not due until twelve-thirty, so, since he could not go swimming and still felt rebellious over being forbidden, Wallie went upstairs to put the finishing touches on a lemonade tray of j.a.panned tin which he had painted and intended presenting to Mr. Cone.

The design was his own, and very excellent it seemed to Wallie as he stopped at intervals and held it from him. On a moss-green background of rolling clouds a most artistic cl.u.s.ter of old-fashioned cabbage roses was tossed carelessly, with a brown slug on a leaf as a touch of realism.

The G.o.ds have a way of apportioning their gifts unevenly, for not only did Wallie paint but he wrote poetry--free verse mostly; free chiefly in the sense that his contributions to the smaller magazines were, perforce, gratuitous. Also he sang--if not divinely, at least so acceptably that his services were constantly asked for charity concerts.

In addition to these he had manlier accomplishments, playing good games of tennis, golf, and shuffle-board. Besides, Mr. Appel was his only dangerous opponent on the bowling alley, and he had learned to ride at the riding academy.

Now, as he worked, he speculated as to whether he had imagined it or "the girl from Wyoming" really had laughed at him. He could not dismiss her from his mind and the incident rankled. He told himself that she had not been there long enough to appreciate him; she knew nothing of his talents or of his popularity. She would learn that to be singled out by him for special attention meant something, and he did not consider himself a conceited man either.

Yet Wallie continued to tingle each time that he thought of the laughter in her eyes--actual derision he feared it was. Then he had an idea, a very clever one it seemed to him. By this time she would have returned from bathing and he would go down and exhibit the cabbage roses. They would be praised and she would hear it. It was nearly time for Will Smith to arrive, and he had to stop painting, anyhow.

Bearing the lemonade tray carefully in order not to smudge it, Wallie stepped out of the elevator and stood in the wide doorway, agreeably aware that he was a pleasing figure in his artist's smock and the flowing scarf which he always put on when he painted.

No one noticed him, however, for everyone was discussing the return of the "Smith boy," and the five dollars which Mr. Appel, the railway magnate, had unexpectedly contributed to the purse that he was going to present to him on behalf of the guests.

Miss Spenceley was on the veranda as he had surmised she would be, and Wallie debated as to whether he should wait until discovered and urged to show his roses, or frankly offer his work for criticism.

While he hesitated, the clatter of hoofs and what appeared to be a serious runaway on the side avenue brought everyone up standing. The swaying vehicle was a laundry wagon, and when it turned in at the entrance to the grounds of The Colonial, the astonished guests saw that not only had the horse a driver but a rider!

It was not a runaway. On the contrary, the person on the horse's back was using his heels and his hat at every jump to get more speed out of the amazed animal.

The wagon stopped in front of the hotel with the driver grinning uncertainly, while a soldierly figure sprang over the wheel to wring the hand of Smith, the gardener. Another on the horse's back replaced his service cap at an extraordinary angle and waited nonchalantly for the greetings to be over.

Before he went to the army "Willie" Smith had been a bashful boy who blushed when the guests spoke to him, but he faced them now with the a.s.surance of a vaudeville entertainer as he introduced his "buddy":

"Pinkey Fripp, of Wyoming--a hero, ladies and gentlemen! The grittiest little soldier in the A.E.F., with a medal to prove it!"

Followed an account of the deed of reckless courage for which Pinkey had been decorated, and the Smith boy told it so well that everyone's eyes had tears in them. Mrs. Appel, fumbling for her handkerchief, dropped her ball of yarn over the railing, where the cat wound it among the rose bushes so effectively that to disentangle it were an endless task.

The subject of the eulogy stared back unabashed at the guests, who stared at him in admiration and curiosity. Unflattered, unmoved, he sagged to one side of the bare-backed horse with the easy grace of one accustomed to the saddle. No one just like him ever had come under the observation of the august patrons of The Colonial.

Pinkey Fripp was about five feet four and square as a bulldog.

"Hard-boiled" is a word which might have been coined specially to describe him. The cropped hair on his round head was sandy, his skin a sun-blistered red, and his lips had deep cracks in them. His nose did not add to his beauty any more than the knife-scar around his neck, which looked as if someone had barely failed in an attempt to cut off his head.

The feature that saved the young fellow's face from a look of unmitigated "toughness" was his pale gray eyes, whose steady, fearless look seemed to contend with a whimsical gleam of humour.