It is not easy in this world to take any definite step without annoyingsomebody, and Kirk, in embarking on his wooing of Ruth Bannister,failed signally to do so. Lora Delane Porter beamed graciously uponhim, like a pleased Providence, but the rest of his circle ofacquaintances were ill at ease.
The statement does not include Hank Jardine, for Hank was out of NewYork; but the others--Shanklyn, the actor; Wren, the newspaper-man;Bryce, Johnson, Willis, Appleton, and the rest--sensed impending changein the air, and were uneasy, like cattle before a thunder-storm. Thefact that the visits of Mrs. Porter and Ruth to inquire after George,now of daily occurrence, took place in the afternoon, while they,Kirk's dependents, seldom or never appeared in the studio till drawnthere by the scent of the evening meal, it being understood that duringthe daytime Kirk liked to work undisturbed, kept them ignorant of thenew development.
All they knew was that during the last two weeks a subtle change hadtaken place in Kirk. He was less genial, more prone to irritabilitythan of old. He had developed fits of absent-mindedness, and wasfrequently to be found staring pensively at nothing. To slap him on theback at such moments, as Wren ventured to do on one occasion, Wrenbelonging to the jovial school of thought which holds that nature gaveus hands in order to slap backs, was to bring forth a new andunexpected Kirk, a Kirk who scowled and snarled and was hardly to beappeased with apology. Stranger still, this new Kirk could be summonedinto existence by precisely the type of story at which, but a few weeksback, he would have been the first to laugh.
Percy Shanklyn, whose conversation consisted of equal parts ofautobiography and of stories of the type alluded to, was the one todiscover this. His latest, which he had counted on to set the table ina roar, produced from Kirk criticism so adverse and so crisplydelivered that he refrained from telling his latest but one and spentthe rest of the evening wondering, like his fellow visitors, what hadhappened to Kirk and whether he was sickening for something.
Not one of them had the faintest suspicion that these symptomsindicated that Kirk, for the first time in his easy-going life, was inlove. They had never contemplated such a prospect. It was not till hisconscientious and laborious courtship had been in progress for over twoweeks and was nearing the stage when he felt that the possibility ofrevealing his state of mind to Ruth was not so remote as it had been,that a chance visit of Percy Shanklyn to the studio during theafternoon solved the mystery.
One calls it a chance visit because Percy had not been meaning toborrow twenty dollars from Kirk that day at all. The man slated for theloan was one Burrows, a kindly member of the Lambs Club. But fate and atelegram from a manager removed Burrows to Chicago, while Percy wasactually circling preparatory to the swoop, and the only other man inNew York who seemed to Percy good for the necessary sum at that precisemoment was Kirk.
He flew to Kirk and found him with Ruth. Kirk's utter absence of anyenthusiasm at the sight of him, the reluctance with which he madethe introduction, the glumness with which he bore his share of thethree-cornered conversation--all these things convinced Percy thatthis was no ordinary visitor.
Many years of living by his wits had developed in Percy highlysensitive powers of observation. Brief as his visit was, he came awayas certain that Kirk was in love with this girl, and the girl was inlove with Kirk, as he had ever been of anything in his life.
As he walked slowly down-town he was thinking hard. The subjectoccupying his mind was the problem of how this thing was to be stopped.
Percy Shanklyn was a sleek, suave, unpleasant youth who had beenimported by a theatrical manager two years before to play the part ofan English dude in a new comedy. The comedy had been what itsenthusiastic backer had described in the newspaper advertisements as a"rousing live-wire success." That is to say, it had staggered along forsix weeks on Broadway to extremely poor houses, and after three weekson the road, had perished for all time, leaving Percy out of work.
Since then, no other English dude part having happened along, he hadrested, living in the mysterious way in which out-of-work actors do live.
He had a number of acquaintances, such as the amiable Burrows, who weregood for occasional loans, but Kirk Winfield was the king of them all.
There was something princely about the careless open-handedness of Kirk'smethods, and Percy's whole soul rose in revolt against the prospect ofbeing deprived of this source of revenue, as something, possibly Ruth'sdetermined chin, told him that he would be, should Kirk marry this girl.
He had placed Ruth at once, directly he had heard her name. Heremembered having seen her photograph in the society section of theSunday paper which he borrowed each week. This was the daughter of oldJohn Bannister. There was no doubt about that. How she had found herway to Kirk's studio he could not understand; but there she certainlywas, and Percy was willing to bet the twenty dollars which, despite theexcitement of the moment, he had forgotten to extract from Kirk in ahurried conversation at the door, that her presence there was not knownand approved by her father.
The only reasonable explanation that Kirk was painting her portrait hedismissed. There had been no signs of any portrait, and Kirk'sembarrassment had been so obvious that, if there had been any suchexplanation, he would certainly have given it. No, Ruth had been therefor other reasons than those of art.
"Unchaperoned, too, by Jove!" thought Percy virtuously, ignorant ofMrs. Lora Delane Porter, who at the time of his call, had been busilyoccupied in a back room instilling into George Pennicut the gospel ofthe fit body. For George, now restored to health, had ceased to be amere student of "Elementary Rules for the Preservation of the Body" andhad become an active, though unwilling, practiser of its precepts.
Every morning Mrs. Porter called and, having shepherded him into theback room, put him relentlessly through his exercises. George's groans,as he moved his stout limbs along the dotted lines indicated in thebook's illustrated plates, might have stirred a faint heart to pity.
But Lora Delane Porter was made of sterner stuff. If George so much asbent his knees while touching his toes he heard of it instantly, in nouncertain voice.
Thus, in her decisive way, did Mrs. Porter spread light and sweetnesswith both hands, achieving the bodily salvation of George while, at thesame time, furthering the loves of Ruth and Kirk by leaving them alonetogether to make each other's better acquaintance in the romanticdimness of the studio.
* * * * *Percy proceeded down-town, pondering. His first impulse, I regret tosay, was to send Ruth's father an anonymous letter. This plan heabandoned from motives of fear rather than of self-respect. Anonymousletters are too frequently traced to their writers, and the prospect offacing Kirk in such an event did not appeal to him.
As he could think of no other way of effecting his object, he had begunto taste the bitterness of futile effort, when fortune, always hisfriend, put him in a position to do what he wanted in the easiestpossible way with the minimum of unpleasantness.
Bailey Bannister, that strong, keen Napoleon of finance, was not abovea little relaxation of an evening when his father happened to be out oftown. That giant mind, weary with the strain of business, neededrefreshment.
And so, at eleven thirty that night, his father being in Albany, andnot expected home till next day, Bailey might have been observed,beautifully arrayed and discreetly jovial, partaking of lobster at oneof those Broadway palaces where this fish is in brisk demand. He was incompany with his rabbit-faced friend, Clarence Grayling, and twomembers of the chorus of a neighbouring musical comedy.
One of the two, with whom Clarence was conversing in a lively mannerthat showed his heart had not been irreparably broken as the result ofhis recent interview with Ruth, we may dismiss. Like Clarence, she isof no importance to the story. The other, who, not finding Bailey'smeasured remarks very gripping, was allowing her gaze to wander idlyaround the room, has this claim to a place in the scheme of things,that she had a wordless part in the comedy in which Percy Shanklyn hadappeared as the English dude and was on terms of friendship with him.
Consequently, seeing him enter the room, as he did at that moment, shesignalled him to approach.
"It's a little feller who was with me in 'The Man from Out West'," sheexplained to Bailey as Percy made his way toward them. At whichBailey's prim mouth closed with an air of disapproval.
The feminine element of the stage he found congenial to his business-harassed brain, but with the "little fellers" who helped them to keepthe national drama sizzling he felt less in sympathy; and he resentedextremely his companion's tactlessness in inciting this infernal mummerto intrude upon his privacy.
He prepared to be cold and distant with Percy. And when Bailey, never aray of sunshine, deliberately tried to be chilly, those with him at thetime generally had the sensation that winter was once more in theirmidst.
Percy, meanwhile, threaded his way among the tables, little knowingthat fate had already solved the problem which had worried him thegreater part of the day.
He had come to the restaurant as a relief from his thoughts. If hecould find some kind friend who would invite him to supper, well andgood. If not, he was feeling so tired and depressed that he was readyto take the bull by the horns and pay for his meal himself. He hadobeyed Miss Freda Reece's signal because it was impossible to avoiddoing so; but one glance at Bailey's face had convinced him that notthere was his kind host.
"Why, Perce," said Miss Reece, "I ain't saw you in years. Where youbeen hiding yourself?"Percy gave a languid gesture indicative of the man of affairs whosetime is not his own.
"Percy," continued Miss Reece, "shake hands with my friend Mr.
Bannister. I been telling him about how you made such a hit as the pinin 'Pinafore'!"The name galvanized Percy like a bugle-blast.
"Mr. Bannister!" he exclaimed. "Any relation to Mr. John Bannister, themillionaire?"Bailey favoured him with a scrutiny through the gold-rimmed glasseswhich would have frozen his very spine.
"My father's name is--ah--John, and he is a millionaire."Percy met the scrutiny with a suave smile.
"By Jove!" he said. "I know your sister quite well, Mr. Bannister. Imeet her frequently at the studio of my friend Kirk Winfield. Veryfrequently. She is there nearly every day. Well, I must be moving on.
Got a date with a man. Goodbye, Freda. Glad you're going strong. Goodnight, Mr. Bannister. Delighted to have made your acquaintance. Youmust come round to the studio one of these days. Good night."He moved softly away. Miss Reece watched him go with regret.
"He's a good little feller, Percy," she said. "And so he knows yoursister. Well, ain't that nice!"Bailey did not reply. And to the feast of reason and flow of soul thatwent on at the table during the rest of the meal he contributed solittle that Miss Reece, in conversation that night with her friendalluded to him, not without justice, first as "that stiff," and, later,as "a dead one."* * * * *If Percy Shanklyn could have seen Bailey in the small hours of thatnight he would have been satisfied that his words had borne fruit. Likea modern Prometheus, Bailey writhed, sleepless, on his bed tilldaylight appeared. The discovery that Ruth was in the habit of payingclandestine visits to artists' studios, where she met men like thelittle bounder who had been thrust upon him at supper, rent his haughtysoul like a bomb.
He knew no artists, but he had read novels of Bohemian life in Paris,and he had gathered a general impression that they were, as a class,shock-headed, unwashed persons of no social standing whatever,extremely short of money and much addicted to orgies. And his sisterhad lowered herself by association with one of these.
He rose early. His appearance in the mirror shocked him. He lookedpositively haggard.
Dressing with unwonted haste, he inquired for Ruth, and was told that atelephone message had come from her late the previous evening to saythat she was spending the night at the apartment of Mrs. Lora DelanePorter. The hated name increased Bailey's indignation. He held Mrs.
Porter responsible for the whole trouble. But for her perniciousinfluence, Ruth would have been an ordinary sweet American girl,running as, Bailey held, a girl should, in a decent groove.
It increased his troubles that his father was away from New York.
Bailey, who enjoyed the dignity of being temporary head of the firm ofBannister & Son, had approved of his departure. But now he would havegiven much to have him on the spot. He did not doubt his own ability tohandle this matter, but he felt that his father ought to know what wasgoing on.
His wrath against this upstart artist who secretly entertained hissister in his studio grew with the minutes. It would be his privilegevery shortly to read that scrubby dauber a lesson in deportment whichhe would remember.
In the interests of the family welfare he decided to stay away from theoffice that day. The affairs of Bannister & Son would be safe for thetime being in the hands of the head clerk. Having telephoned to WallStreet to announce his decision, he made a moody breakfast and thenproceeded, as was his custom of a morning, to the gymnasium for hisdaily exercise.
The gymnasium was a recent addition to the Bannister home. It had beenestablished as the result of a heart-to-heart talk between old JohnBannister and his doctor. The doctor spoke earnestly of nervousprostration and stated without preamble the exact number of monthswhich would elapse before Mr. Bannister living his present life, wouldmake first-hand acquaintance with it. He insisted on a regular routineof exercise. The gymnasium came into being, and Mr. Steve Dingle,physical instructor at the New York Athletic Club, took up a positionin the Bannister household which he was wont to describe to hisnumerous friends as a soft snap.
Certainly his hours were not long. Thirty minutes with old Mr.
Bannister and thirty minutes with Mr. Bailey between eight and nine inthe morning and his duties were over for the day. But Steve wasconscientious and checked any disposition on the part of his twoclients to shirk work with a firmness which Lora Delane Porter mighthave envied.
There were moments when he positively bullied old Mr. Bannister. Itwould have amazed the clerks in his Wall Street office to see themeekness with which the old man obeyed orders. But John Bannister was aman who liked to get his money's worth, and he knew that Steve wasgiving it to the last cent.
Steve at that time was twenty-eight years old. He had abandoned anactive connection with the ring, which had begun just after hisseventeenth birthday, twelve months before his entry into the Bannisterhome, leaving behind him a record of which any boxer might have beenproud. He personally was exceedingly proud of it, and made no secret ofthe fact.
He was a man in private life of astonishingly even temper. The onlything that appeared to have the power to ruffle him to the slightestextent was the contemplation of what he described as the bunch ofcheeses who pretended to fight nowadays. He would have considered it aprivilege, it seemed, to be allowed to encounter all the middle-weightsin the country in one ring in a single night without training. But itappeared that he had promised his mother to quit, and he had quit.
Steve's mother was an old lady who in her day had been the bestwasherwoman on Cherry Hill. She was, moreover, completely lacking inall the qualities which go to make up the patroness of sport. Steve hadbeen injudicious enough to pay her a visit the day after his celebratedunpleasantness with that rugged warrior, Pat O'Flaherty (_ne_Smith), and, though he had knocked Pat out midway through the secondround, he bore away from the arena a black eye of such a startlingrichness that old Mrs. Dingle had refused to be comforted until he hadpromised never to enter the ring again. Which, as Steve said, had comepretty hard, he being a man who would rather be a water-bucket in aring than a president outside it.
But he had given the promise, and kept it, leaving the field to theabove-mentioned bunch of cheeses. There were times when the temptationto knock the head off Battling Dick this and Fighting Jack that becamealmost agony, but he never yielded to it. All of which suggests thatSteve was a man of character, as indeed he was.
Bailey, entering the gymnasium, found Steve already there, punchingthe bag with a force and precision which showed that the bunch ofcheeses ought to have been highly grateful to Mrs. Dingle for heranti-pugilistic prejudices.
"Good morning, Dingle," said Bailey precisely.
Steve nodded. Bailey began to don his gymnasium costume. Steve gave theball a final punch and turned to him. He was a young man who gave theimpression of being, in a literal sense, perfectly square. This was dueto the breadth of his shoulders, which was quite out of proportion tohis height. His chest was extraordinarily deep, and his stomach andwaist small, so that to the observer seeing him for the first time inboxing trunks, he seemed to begin as a big man and, half-way down,change his mind and become a small one.
His arms, which were unusually long and thick, hung down nearly to hisknees and were decorated throughout with knobs and ridges of musclethat popped up and down and in and out as he moved, in a manner bothfascinating and frightening. His face increased the illusion ofsquareness, for he had thick, straight eyebrows, a straight mouth, anda chin of almost the minimum degree of roundness. He inspected Baileywith a pair of brilliant brown eyes which no detail of his appearancecould escape. And Bailey, that morning, as has been said, was notlooking his best.
"You're lookin' kind o' sick, bo," was Steve's comment. "I guess youwas hittin' it up with the gang last night in one of them lobsterparlours."Bailey objected to being addressed as "bo," and he was annoyed thatSteve should have guessed the truth respecting his overnight movements.
Still more was he annoyed that Steve's material mind should attributeto a surfeit of lobster a pallor that was superinduced by a torturedsoul.
"I did--ah--take supper last night, it is true," he said. "But if I ama little pale to-day, that is not the cause. Things have occurred toannoy me intensely.""You should worry!" advised Steve. "Catch!"The heavy medicine-ball struck Bailey in the chest before he couldbring up his hands and sent him staggering back.
"Damn it, Dingle," he gasped. "Kindly give me warning before you dothat sort of thing."Steve was delighted. It amused his simple, honest soul to catch Baileynapping, and the incident gave him a text on which to hang a lecture.
And, next to fighting, he loved best the sound of his own voice.
"Warning? Nix!" he said. "Ain't it just what I been telling you everyday for weeks? You gotta be ready _always_. You seen me holdingthe pellet. You should oughter have been saying to yourself: 'I gottakeep an eye on that gink, so's he don't soak me one with that thingwhen I ain't looking.' Then you would have caught it and whizzed itback at me, and maybe, if I hadn't been ready for it, you might haveknocked the breeze out of me.""I should have derived no pleasure-----""Why, say, suppose a plug-ugly sasshays up to you on the street to takea crack at your pearl stick-pin, do you reckon he's going to drop you apostal card first? You gotta be _ready_ for him. See what I mean?""Let us spar," said Bailey austerely. He had begun to despair of evermaking Steve show him that deference and respect which he considereddue to the son of the house. The more frigid he was, the more genialand friendly did Steve become. The thing seemed hopeless.
It was a pleasing sight to see Bailey spar. He brought to the task themeasured dignity which characterized all his actions. A left jab fromhim had all the majesty of a formal declaration of war. If he was atrifle slow in his movements for a pastime which demands a certainagility from its devotees he at least got plenty of exercise and didhimself a great deal of good.
He was perspiring freely as he took off the gloves. A shower-bath,followed by brisk massage at the energetic hands of Steve, made himfeel better than he had imagined he could feel after that night ofspiritual storm and stress. He was glowing as he put on his clothes,and a certain high resolve which had come to him in the night watchesnow returned with doubled force.
"Dingle," he said, "how did I seem to-day?""Fine," answered Steve courteously. "You're gettin' to be a regularterror.""You think I shape well?""Sure.""I am glad. This morning I am going to thrash a man within an inch ofhis life.""What!"Steve spun round. Bailey's face was set and determined.
"You are?" said Steve feebly.
"I am.""What's he been doing to you?""I am afraid I cannot tell you that. But he richly deserves what hewill get."Steve eyed him with affectionate interest.
"Well, ain't you the wildcat!" he said. "Who'd have thought it? I'dalways had you sized up as a kind o' placid guy.""I can be roused.""Gee, can't I see it! But, say, what sort of a gook is this gink,anyway?""In what respect?""Well, I mean is he a heavy or a middle or a welter or what? It makes akind o' difference, you know.""I cannot say. I have not seen him.""What! Not seen him? Then how's there this fuss between you?""That is a matter into which I cannot go.""Well, what's his name, then? Maybe I know him. I know a few goodpeople in this burg.""I have no objection to telling you that. He is an artist, and his nameis--his name is----"Wrinkles appeared in Bailey's forehead. His eyes bulged anxiouslybehind their glasses.
"I've forgotten," he said blankly.
"For the love of Mike! Know where he lives?""I am afraid not."Steve patted him kindly on the shoulder.
"Take my advice, bo," he said. "Let the poor fellow off this time."And so it came about that Bailey, instead of falling upon KirkWinfield, hailed a taxicab and drove to the apartment of Mrs. LoraDelane Porter.
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