The Triumph of Virginia Dale Part 21

"Oh," said Mr. Jones, apparently much relieved at the distinction made.

"You want to get out into the air and breathe," Kelly explained as if the stenographer were carelessly given to omit this function.

"I don't have the time." Mr. Jones visualized a dignified stroll over a golf links.

Kelly gave thought to the difficulty. "A motorcycle would be the thing," he decided.

The effect upon Mr. Jones would have been no different if Kelly had prescribed an aeroplane or a submarine. "I can't ride a motorcycle, and even if I could, where can I get one?" he objected.

"That's the point." Kelly was as enthusiastic as a life insurance agent. "I have a friend who has one. He nearly killed himself on it and now he is in the hospital. I'll bet that he is tired of it and will sell it cheap."

"What do I want with the thing if it nearly killed him?" Mr. Jones protested logically.

"Don't be a fool. The motorcycle never hurt him. He ran into an automobile and hurt himself."

Mr. Jones believed the difference to be immaterial. "I won't ride a motorcycle," he declared obstinately.

Kelly clung to his scheme with constructive pride. "It's up to you, my friend," he argued. "You are going to die unless you get out into the air. I suggest the way to do it."

"Yes, and I'll get killed on the blamed old motorcycle," predicted Mr. Jones mournfully.

"Take your choice!" the generous Kelly invited. "I am going up to the hospital to see that fellow after office hours. Why don't you come along and meet him and then you can decide about the machine."

Mr. Jones, fearful that he might overlook an important engagement, consulted a note-book with care. After concluding his investigation of the records, he said, "Well, as I don't happen to have anything on, I don't mind going up there with you, but you can write it in your hat that I'm not strong for any motorcycle business."

Within a few moments after the prescribed closing hour, Obadiah's official staff appeared upon the streets of South Ridgefield. Their steps lead them towards the hospital and on the way they pa.s.sed Mr.

Vivian's cool oasis of refreshment amidst the burning sands of the town's business section.

Here, the confectioner and his a.s.sistants arrayed in pure white moved gracefully about, serving the guests with cooling drink or, from time to time, gave attention to the adjustment of the mechanical piano which furnished melody for the lovers of music.

Mr. Jones feasted his eyes upon this scene of innocent revelry and good fellowship. "Come on," he said to Kelly, "have a drink?"

Kelly received the invitation with insulting words. "That's your trouble," he exclaimed in a voice which carried far. "That's what makes your complexion so fierce."

The sensitive soul of Mr. Jones rebelled at this public outcry of his physical defects. "Say, you big chump," he burst out, "don't you know any better than to bawl a fellow out that way in a place where everybody can hear you? That's a d.i.c.kens of a thing to do."

"Come on. n.o.body was listening." Kelly looked about as if disappointed at failing to find an audience awaiting other personal allusions. "It's the truth," he maintained vigorously.

Mr. Jones hesitated, torn as many another good man, between his vanity and his appet.i.te. Before his eyes flowed a tantalizing stream of those delicacies so dear to his palate. In his pocket reposed two dimes, his wealth until pay day on the morrow would replenish his purse. Why should not a good fellow entertain his friends even though they resort to personal comments? Rent by conflicting desires, he jingled the coins.

As he fingered them, there flashed the remembrance of the war tax. He turned to Kelly and his voice was very sad, as he murmured, "I guess that you're right, old man. We'll cut out the sweet stuff."

They had no difficulty in locating Joe Curtis. His sunny characteristics had won him already wide spread friendships among the hospital staff, so that the way to his bed was indicated as the path to a neighbor's door.

Kelly grinned amiably at Miss Knight, and inquired, "May I speak to Joe Curtis?"

The nurse looked at the big fellow with the appraising eye of a connoisseur of men. "Sure," she retorted, "if you can talk and he will give you a chance to."

The partic.i.p.ants in this repartee were much pleased with its cleverness.

They laughed loudly.

Mr. Jones, considering the remarks frivolous, did not deign to unbend from a stately poise a.s.sumed by him when in the presence of ladies.

Miss Knight was evidently a person of ordinary origin, lacking in discrimination. She had failed to notice the stenographer, confining her attentions, including her smiles, to the husky Kelly.

"Here's another friend, Joe," the nurse told the injured motorcyclist when they arrived at his bedside. She failed to take account of Mr.

Jones who had progressed down the aisle with mien of great distinction.

His entrance was marred only by a remark of a vulgar patient who in a coa.r.s.e whisper desired to be advised, "Who let Charlie Chaplin in?"

much to the amus.e.m.e.nt of other low fellows.

"h.e.l.lo, Joe, how's business?" asked Kelly.

"Fine, Mike, fine. Never better," responded the patient.

"Meet my friend, Mr. Percy Jones." The introduction was impaired as the stenographer's attention was devoted to frowning down masculine giggles reminiscent of the reference to the ill.u.s.trious movie star.

That the social exigencies of the moment might not be overlooked, Kelly dug a finger into the stenographer's side.

Mr. Jones undulated as to a measure of the Hula Hula. "Wough," he yelled. "Wot cher doin'?"

Happy laughter arose from nearby beds.

Miss Knight swept her rec.u.mbent charges with a glance of stern reproof. "Where's your manners?" she demanded. "Cut out this rough stuff or--" she paused for effect and then launched this terrifying threat--"you'll get no ice cream on Wednesday." The male surgical cases quailed before this menace of cruel and unusual punishment.

Peace reigned.

"Gentlemen, be seated," invited Joe, in the rich and mellow tones of an interlocutor.

Miss Knight departed. Mr. Jones sat down in the only chair and Kelly made preparations to rest his huge form on the bed of the injured one.

Joe viewed this arrangement with alarm. "Don't you sit on my broken leg, you hippopotamus," he protested.

Kelly withdrew so hastily that he nearly knocked Mr. Jones off his chair.

"Mike, go over there and get that other chair. Don't try to rob a little fellow like Jonesy," Joe told him.

Pain swathed the features of Mr. Jones. To be publicly addressed as "Jonesy" was bad enough, but when coupled with an insulting reference to his size, it was too much.

Kelly finally seated himself by the invalid's head and remarked with a smile of pleasure, "Joe, they tell me you're about dead. Is there anything in it?"

"Listen to words of warning," suggested the injured man. "Even with my game leg, it would take a bigger man than you to put me out of business."

Kelly disregarded the challenge. "Is there any truth in the report that landing on your head is all that saved you?"

Joe grunted in disdain and Mr. Jones openly yawned at such commonplace humor.

Regardless of popular displeasure, Kelly went on. "I understand that your head ruined the truck?"

"Mike, you are a heavy kidder." Joe smiled affectionately at his big friend. "Your conversation is usually agreeable, sometimes interesting, but never reliable. You guessed wrong about a truck. I ran into a seven pa.s.senger touring car."

"Ha, a chariot of the awful rich. In the excitement did you surrept.i.tiously abstract any diamonds, tires, gasoline or other valuables shaken loose by your dome?"