CHAPTER VI.
On his native asphalt there are few situations capable of throwing the
New York policeman off his balance. In that favored clime, _savoir
faire_ is represented by a shrewd left hook at the jaw, and a masterful
stroke of the truncheon amounts to a satisfactory repartee. Thus shall
you never take the policeman of Manhattan without his answer. In other
surroundings, Mr. Patrick McEachern would have known how to deal with
his young acquaintance, Mr. Jimmy Pitt. But another plan of action was
needed here. First of all, the hints on etiquette with which Lady Jane
had favored him, from time to time, and foremost came the mandate:
"Never make a scene." Scenes, Lady Jane had explained--on the occasion
of his knocking down an objectionable cabman during their honeymoon
trip--were of all things what polite society most resolutely abhorred.
The natural man in him must be bound in chains. The sturdy blow must
give way to the honeyed word. A cold "Really!" was the most vigorous
retort that the best circles would countenance.
It had cost Mr. McEachern some pains to learn this lesson, but he had
done it; and he proceeded on the present occasion to conduct himself
high and disposedly, according to instructions from headquarters.
The surprise of finding an old acquaintance in this company rendered
him dumb for a brief space, during which Jimmy looked after the
conversation.
"How do you do, Mr. McEachern?" inquired Jimmy genially. "Quite a
surprise meeting you in England. A pleasant surprise. By the way, one
generally shakes hands in the smartest circles. Yours seem to be down
there somewhere. Might I trouble you? Right. Got it? Thanks!"
He bent forward, possessed himself of Mr. McEachern's right hand,
which was hanging limply at its proprietor's side, shook it warmly,
and replaced it.
"'Wahye?" asked Mr. McEachern gruffly, giving a pleasing air of
novelty to the hackneyed salutation by pronouncing it as one word. He
took some little time getting into his stride when carrying on polite
conversation.
"Very well, thank you. You're looking as strong as ever, Mr.
McEachern."
The ex-policeman grunted. In a conversational sense, he was sparring
for wind.
Molly had regained her composure by this time. Her father was taking
the thing better than she had expected.
"It's Jimmy, father, dear," she said. "Jimmy Pitt."
"Dear old James," murmured the visitor.
"I know, me dear, I know. Wahye?"
"Still well," replied Jimmy cheerfully. "Sitting up, you will notice,"
he added, waving a hand in the direction of his teacup, "and taking
nourishment. No further bulletins will be issued."
"Jimmy is staying here, father. He is the friend Spennie was
bringing."
"This is the friend that Spennie brought," said Jimmy in a rapid
undertone. "This is the maiden all forlorn who crossed the seas, and
lived in the house that sheltered the friend that Spennie brought."
"I see, me dear," said Mr. McEachern slowly. "'Wah----"
"No, I've guessed that one already," said Jimmy. "Ask me another."
Molly looked reproachfully at him. His deplorable habit of chaffing
her father had caused her trouble in the old days. It may be admitted
that this recreation of Jimmy's was not in the best taste; but it must
also be remembered that the relations between the two had always been
out of the ordinary. Great as was his affection for Molly, Jimmy could
not recollect a time when war had not been raging in a greater or
lesser degree between the ex-policeman and himself.
"It is very kind of you to invite me down here," said he. "We shall be
able to have some cozy chats over old times when I was a wanderer on
the face of the earth, and you----"
"Yis, yis," interrupted Mr. McEachern hastily, "somewhere ilse,
aftherward."
"You shall choose time and place, of course. I was only going to ask
you how you liked leaving the----"
"United States?" put in Mr. McEachern, with an eagerness which
broadened his questioner's friendly smile, as the Honorable Louis
Wesson came toward them.
"Well, I'm not after saying it was not a wrinch at firrst, but I
considered it best to lave Wall Street--Wall Street, ye understand,
before----"
"I see. Before you fell a victim to the feverish desire for reckless
speculation which is so marked a characteristic of the American
business man, what?"
"That's it," said the other, relieved.
"I, too, have been speculating," said Mr. Wesson, "as to whether you
would care to show me the rose garden, Miss McEachern, as you promised
yesterday. Of all flowers, I love roses best. You remember Bryant's
lines, Miss McEachern? 'The rose that lives its little hour is prized
beyond the sculptured flower.'"
Jimmy interposed firmly. "I'm very sorry," he said, "but the fact is
Miss McEachern has just promised to take me with her to feed the
fowls.
"I gamble on fowls," he thought. "There must be some in a high-class
establishment of this kind."
"I'd quite forgotten," said Molly.
"I thought you had. We'd better start at once. Nothing upsets a fowl
more than having to wait for dinner."
"Nonsense, me dear Molly," said Mr. McEachern bluffly. "Run along and
show Mr. Wesson the roses. Nobody wants to waste time over a bunch of
hens."
"Perhaps not," said Jimmy thoughtfully, "perhaps not. I might be
better employed here, amusing the people by telling them all about our
old New York days and----"
Mr. McEachern might have been observed, and was so observed by Jimmy,
to swallow somewhat convulsively.
"But as Molly promised ye----" said he.
"Just so," said Jimmy. "My own sentiments, neatly expressed. Shall we
start, Miss McEachern?"
"That fellah," said Mr. Wesson solemnly to his immortal soul, "is a
damn bounder. _And_ cad," he added after a moment's reflection.
The fowls lived in a little world of noise and smells at the back of
the stables. The first half of the journey thither was performed in
silence. Molly's cheerful little face was set in what she probably
imagined to be a forbidding scowl. The tilt of her chin spoke of
displeasure.
"If a penny would be any use to you," said Jimmy, breaking the
tension.
"I'm not at all pleased with you," said Molly severely.
"How _can_ you say such savage things! And me an orphan, too!
What's the trouble? What have I done?"
"You know perfectly well. Making fun of father like that."
"My dear girl, he loved it. Brainy badinage of that sort is exchanged
every day in the best society. You should hear dukes and earls! The
wit! the _esprit_! The flow of soul! Mine is nothing to it. What's this
in the iron pot? Is this what you feed them? Queer birds, hens--I
wouldn't touch the stuff for a fortune. It looks perfectly poisonous.
Flock around, you pullets. Come in your thousands. All bad nuts
returned, and a souvenir goes with every corpse. A little more of this
putrescent mixture for you, sir. Certainly, pick up your dead, pick up
your dead."
An unwilling dimple appeared on Molly's chin, like a sunbeam through
clouds.
"All the same," she said, "you ought to be ashamed of yourself,
Jimmy."
"I haven't time when I find myself stopping in the same house with a
girl I've been looking for for three years."
Molly looked away. There was silence for a moment.
"Used you ever to think of me?" she said quietly.
That curious constraint which had fallen upon Jimmy in the road came
to him again, now, as sobering as a blow. Something which he could not
define had changed the atmosphere. Suddenly in an instant, like a
shallow stream that runs babbling over the stones into some broad,
still pool, the note of their talk had deepened.
"Yes," he said simply. He could find no words for what he wished to
say.
"I've thought of you--often," said Molly.
He took a step toward her. But the moment had passed. Her mood had
changed in a flash, or seemed to have changed. The stream babbled on
over the stones again.
"Be careful, Jimmy! You nearly touched me with the spoon. I don't want
to be covered with that horrible stuff. Look at that poor, little
chicken out there in the cold. It hasn't had a morsel."
Jimmy responded to her lead. There was nothing else for him to do.
"It's in luck," he said.
"Give it a spoonful."
"It can have one if it likes. But it's taking big risks. Here you are,
Hercules. Pitch in."
He scraped the last spoonful out of the iron pot, and they began to
walk back to the house.
"You're very quiet, Jimmy," said Molly.
"I was thinking."
"What about?"
"Lots of things."
"New York?"
"That among others."
"Dear old New York," said Molly, with a little sigh. "I'm not sure it
wasn't--I mean, I sometimes wish--oh, you know. I mean it's lovely
here, but it _was_ nice in the old days, wasn't it, Jimmy? It's a pity
that things change, isn't it?"
"It depends."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't mind things changing, if people don't."
"Do you think I've changed? You said I hadn't when we met in the
road."
"You haven't, as far as looks go."
"Have I changed in other ways?"
Jimmy looked at her.
"I don't know," he said slowly.
They were in the hall, now. Keggs had just left after beating the
dressing gong. The echoes of it still lingered. Molly paused on the
bottom step.
"I haven't, Jimmy," she said; and ran on up the stairs.
