Congressman Gookin himself had meanwhile dismounted from the automobile, and extended his hand to the young lady, who stepped down, looking around her rather sullenly.
“Honestly, Papa!” she murmured. “That really is the height of bad manners.”
“Hush, Evangeline,” said her father. “There’s a reporter for the Morning Call! Smile; and pray don’t say anything objectionable.” He drew off his hat and waved it at the throng. “Well met, citizens!”
There were scattered cheers. With his daughter on his arm he strode within, smiling and nodding to one and all. Just to the left of the entrance was a reception room with a bar, where more members of the press were assembled. Congressman Gookin flashed them a broad smile.
“Gentlemen! What a grand day, is it not? I wonder if you could tell me whether Mr. Rigby has arrived?”
The reporter for the Examiner coughed meaningfully.
“Madame Rigby,” said she, stepping forward. Congressman Gookin turned to regard her.
“Oh! Like Madame Tussaud? Oh, I see! I hope you’ll pardon me, madame; entirely unintentional oversight,” he said. “Fremont T. Gookin, your servant. May I introduce my daughter, Evangeline?”
“What a pretty child,” said Madame Rigby. “You know, my dear, your papa’s quite forgotten me! Haven’t you, Congressman? Or is it possible the name Eudora Rigby has not quite faded from memory?”
Congressman Gookin opened his mouth to make some gracious rejoinder, and halted. He looked at Madame Rigby with recognition; horror came into his face. Before he could recover himself, Madame Rigby grinned, and urged forward the young man whose arm she held.
“And do let me present my son, Jack Rigby.”
“How do you do, young man,” stammered Congressman Gookin. Jack cocked his head slightly, smiled and said:
“Very pleased to meet you, I’m sure.”
Congressman Gookin’s distracted gaze traveled over the youth’s features, which bore a certain resemblance to his own; then he noticed the embroidered waistcoat, and the color quite fled from his cheeks. He pulled out a handkerchief and mopped away cold sweat.
“Madame—please—”
“I think you had a few words to say to the gentlemen of the press?” said Madame Rigby.
“Why—yes, I have—” Congressman Gookin fumbled in his coat pocket and brought out a paper containing the notes for the speech he had prepared. In doing so he disengaged his arm from that of his daughter, and Madame Rigby was quick to lean forward and take her hand.
“Miss Evangeline, wouldn’t you like a private tour of the exhibition, before we let in the public? Jack! Take her arm, there’s a good boy. Dick, you go with ’em, show Jack the way.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Dick said, stepping away from the bar.
“But—” said Congressman Gookin, looking around wildly. Madame Rigby took his arm.
“Now, now, Congressman dear, I’m sure we’re all anxious to hear what you have to say,” she said, looking around at the reporters. “Aren’t you, boys?”
And in fact Congressman Gookin had prepared a fine speech, full of references to the New Century, and Progress, and American Capability. He had hired his automobile especially for the occasion, and had meant to laud American inventors in several clever references to it; he had even done a little research on the history of clockwork automata, and worked up an elaborate metaphor involving the American industrial worker as a proud engine propelling forward the American economy. This was designed to lead to an impassioned appeal for re-election, on the grounds that Progress would cease unless he, Congressman Gookin, were permitted to continue his efforts on its behalf.
It was a rather long speech, and this was unfortunate, for several journalists present noticed that Congressman Gookin stuttered on not a few occasions throughout. He seemed to have difficulty concentrating; several times his eyes tracked nervously to the door through which his daughter had vanished with the two young gentlemen. Madame Rigby stood by the door with her arms crossed, smiling at him the entire time.
Meanwhile, a floor above, Jack Rigby strolled along with Miss Evangeline on his arm, and Dick followed behind them, scarcely able to contain his mirth.
“These are the tableaux, miss,” said Dick, pointing to a row of cases. “They’re mostly her older pieces. This, here, is the Visit to the Circus; allow me to demonstrate.”
He dropped a slug nickel into the coin slot, whereupon Miss Evangeline was treated to the sight of a three-ring circus in miniature coming to life. Little trapeze artists swung to and fro, a lion tamer raised his whip before a snarling beast that lifted and dropped its head, and a magician made a crystal ball appear and disappear.
“Oh, everything moves,” exclaimed Evangeline, and gazed up at Jack. “Isn’t that clever!”
“Charming,” agreed Jack.
“And this one’s the Message from the Sea,” said Dick, trying to catch Evangeline’s eye, for he thought she was quite a pretty girl. She glanced at the tableau instead, as it whirred into motion. It depicted a ballroom. On a dais on one corner, musicians sat, and rocked to and fro as though playing their various instruments. Real beveled mirrors were set in the wall, the better to reflect the naval officers and their ladies who waltzed round and round, on a circular track, to a music-box waltz. Beyond, in a painted harbor lit by a white moon, great warships rode the sea surge, going slowly up and down; in the foreground a ship’s boat rocked too, full of sailors who rested on their oars. A tiny midshipman bearing a sword no longer than a toothpick was halfway up the terrace steps, waving; in his raised hand was a sealed dispatch.
“That is too, too romantic,” said Evangeline to Jack, with a sigh. “Whatever do you suppose is in the message?”
“Tell me what you think,” said Jack.
“Oh, I suppose—perhaps war’s been declared, and all those gallant seamen must leave their sweethearts broken hearted,” said Evangeline. “And yet, their love shall burn the more fiercely for being cruelly separated.”
“Indeed,” said Jack.
“Do you want to see the automatons?” said Dick, a trifle sulkily. “There’s a peach over here—Professor Honorius. He’ll write you out a personal message.”
“Yes, thank you,” said Evangeline. “I declare, Mr. Rigby, your mama is a woman of most remarkable talents!”
“Ah, well,” said Jack.
“You don’t think so? But then I find that parents and children seldom appreciate one another as they ought,” said Evangeline. “My papa, for example, seems incapable of regarding me as anything other than an ornament to his arm during election time. My thoughts and feelings are quite inconsequential to him.”
“Dear, dear,” said Jack.
“Here,” said Dick, stopping beside a glass case wherein sat, large as life, a whimsical old gentleman in the robe and mortarboard of a schoolmaster. His right arm, pen in hand, rested on a small writing-table. “You have to stand in front of him for it to work.”
He took Evangeline’s elbow and steered her to a spot directly in front of the case. He had assumed she would let go of Jack’s arm in the process, but she held tight and Jack followed like an obliging fellow, close at her side.
“Not sure he’ll get the message right, if there’s two of you,” grumbled Dick, but he felt in his pocket for another slug and dropped it in the coin slot.
Professor Honorius raised his head and turned it from side to side, as though peering before him. Then his left hand lifted a pair of spectacles to his eyes, and he looked straight ahead at Evangeline and Jack. He nodded, smiling. As he did so, a card dropped into a small tray on the writing-table.
Professor Honorius lowered his spectacles and turned his face to the writing-table, seeming to look down on the card. His right arm lifted, reached across to an inkwell, whose cap opened for him; he dipped the pen and then, slowly but with perfect articulation of his fingers, wrote upon the card.