The other half of the table, as usual, was occupied by Uncle George and his family -- as effectively concealed from Dick, where he sat, as if they had been all the way across the room.
Savory odors drifted in from the kitchen. Slobs at the service tables in the corner were pouring more cocktails from gigantic shakers. Soup tureens came down the aisles in silvery flotillas, gallons of soup, soup enough to drown a man, all fragrantly steaming.
It was, Dick discovered, mock turtle -- his favorite. The whole banquet seemed to have been decently planned to suit his tastes, in fact. As he picked up his spoon, the Man's voice said, "How much have you eaten today, Dick?"
Dick stared at him. The Man's neat, small features were serious, as always. "Well, breakfast -- ham and eggs -- -.and then I had a piece of cheese and some milk around lunch time. And some nuts. Why?"
"Eat sparingly now," said the Man. "You may have a little soup and some game. No fowl, no fish, no seafood, no pastry. And no wine. Pretend to be eating more than you are. Is that clear?"
Dick's mouth fell to watering.
"Do you understand?" his father insisted.
His own mouth sounded thick. "I suppose so." This was really too much -- his own farewell banquet! Oh, damn! "But Dad -- "
"Yes?"
"I thought the duel was all off."
"What gave you that impression?"
Dick floundered. "Well, I don't know -- "
"It may be off. I venture to hope so. But meanwhile, you will take the precautions I mentioned."
The noise was such that he could barely make out the words. Tumblers, traded for the occasion from a Canadian connection of the Dabneys', came whirling down the bare center table, pinwheels of red and yellow tights; they unwound, leaped, bowed, and became jugglers. One of them, the tall fellow, unaccountably stumbled and dropped a red rubber ball, which bounced into Mitchel Krauss's soup. Krauss stood up with a howl of wrath and flung a wine bottle at the slob. Struck fair in the ribs, the fellow toppled, off balance, and fell kicking in the aisle. Mirth exploded around him; Krauss and his crony Roscoe Burns clinked glasses, splattering themselves and their fat wives, already choking with laughter.
Off to the right, an even merrier din arose from the slobs' table, where the Rev. Dr. Hamper, Padgett, Blashfield and Dr. Scope presided over the upper servants.
The remaining two tumblers finished their act and went off. Dick noticed the one who had fallen being carried out -- in pain, by the look of him. Probably he had broken a rib or two. That showed you Krauss's lack of consideration, but then, everybody knew he treated his own slobs the same way.
The soup was followed by game and Burgundy, with highballs for those who wanted them. Under the lights, the centerpieces steadily wilted. The faces of the waiters as they hurried by were gray with fatigue, sweat-streaked. The diners' faces gleamed with grease and exertion; their mouths opened to roar with laughter, and closed around gobbets of rich hot meat, potatoes and gravy, savory Brussels sprouts, artichokes in hollandaise sauce, slices of cranberry jelly. Little Echols choked, barked, turned purple, and was heartily thumped on the back. At the younger tables there was a good deal of bun-throwing, and fencing with bunches of celery. Several small children, screaming with rage, had to be led off in disgrace by governesses.
Dick ate a little of the venison, as ordered, and put it aside; he left the wineglass untouched. The next course was pheasant, with a golden Rhine wine -- probably the Mohawk, he thought bitterly. The serving slob, who was some kind of relative of the chef's, gave Dick a reproachful look as he cleared away the plates.
Then came domestic meats -- duped, of course; nobody kept herds any more -- with a claret. Then seafood, with a sauterne. Dick's father touched his arm and nodded toward Uncle Orville. When Dick had attracted his attention, the Man said to them both, "Cashel is not eating. He has had nothing since the soup."
Uncle Orville nodded and turned away. Dick's mouth was suddenly dry.
The meal dragged on. The room, the diners, everything had taken on a dreamlike quality. Time was stifled. Course succeeded course with maddening slowness, and Dick carved the meat, chopped at vegetables with his fork, picked up his wineglass and set it down. The Buckhill Players, who in everyday life were body slobs, secretaries and the like, came on with a skit called "The Expert Eye"; Dick had seen it in rehearsal, and had thought it hilariously funny, but now it seemed vulgar and dull. Singers followed, then the magician, and then a pair of clowns -- new ones; Uncle Glenn had brought them up from Newcastle. Heat waves swam under the ceiling; the sherbets began to melt almost as soon as they were set down.
Then the last of the long line of glasses was being filled with champagne; Uncle Orville, on Dick's right, rose to give the first toast.
"To the boy that's leaving us tomorrow -- to spend four years away from his own fireside -- learning good manners and wickedness -- " Uncle Orville snorted. "May he come back none the worse for it -- young Dick Jones!"
All over the room, the bright wineglasses winked as they swung up in salute. There were more toasts, endlessly, while the hot room swam in its own vapors, fumes of wine, greasy fragrance of departed meat, spices, sweat and perfumes.
Abruptly, it was all over. The guests were getting up, milling confusedly in the aisles, and slowly trickling out, leaving the sadly littered floor and the garbage-heaped tables behind them. The echoes grew hollow.
The women of the two Jones families were gone, taking the younger children with them. The last guests were out of earshot. Leaning on his elbows on the table, the Man turned and said, "Well, George?"
Uncle George's face was pale. "Fred, you've pushed me too far. I want you to understand that. I never was jealous of you -- "
The Man must have made some sound, for Uncle George stopped as if stung. "No, by God, I never was!" he said. "But you think you can sit here, manning it over the whole countryside --" His voice was shaking; he stopped again, stared at the dessert plate in front of him, with its monogram and the distinctive Jones pattern, then clutched it and broke the fragile thing over the edge of the table.
Next to him, Cashel started and glanced up, his heavy face surprised.
The Man's voice seemed flat, almost colorless. "Do I understand by that gesture that Cashel is challenging Dick?"
"Unless he gets an apology, right here, right now!" Uncle George struck the table with his fist, making the silverware dance and ring.
The Man turned composedly. "Well, Dick?"
Down the table, the faces of the other men stared sullenly or angrily past him. Dick could see now, as he looked at them, what it was that was eating into Cashel and Uncle George. If he were only out of the way, it would be more than four years before Ad was sixteen; there would be a vacancy, and Cash could go to Colorado -- get the training, meet the important people ...
For the first time he could remember, sitting there beside his father, he felt that he and the Man were completely in harmony, each knowing the other's feelings without a word or gesture.
This was what mattered, after all -- not who was "right" or "wrong."
He said, "I accept." The words hung in the heavy air. Sunlight was pouring brilliantly in at the far end of the room, making the incandescents seem dim and sickly. For a long time no one spoke.
Gray-haired old Vaughan, the Man's body-slob, came at a tottering run through the doorway. The Man, Dick realized, must have signaled for him minutes ago. Leaning back casually over his chair, Dick's father spoke to Vaughan, giving him instructions; the slob went out and returned shortly with a portable typewriter. One of the secretaries, being sent for, sat down at the machine and in a few minutes produced a document which he handed with a bow to the Man. By this time, Kunkle of Delaview had showed up, redder than ever in a hideous apple-green jacket and plus-fours. Kunkle was the district's greatest sports and weapons enthusiast; he knew all the rules of every contest, and always refereed important matches. All the men, having seized the opportunity to stand up, gathered in an uneasy group to read the document -- after which each sat down again in turn to sign it: first Dick's father, then Uncle George, then the in-laws beginning with the eldest.