They were rescued by Dougherty, who came bounding over to them with the grace of a rhinoceros.
“I have it!” he exclaimed triumphantly.
“Then hold onto it,” said Driscoll, setting the dice box far back on the counter with an emphatic bang. “You have what?”
“About the roses. See here, Miss Williams ought to have ’em. Dumain said so. Well, why can’t we take turns at it? Say, every day we fill up the vase, each one in his turn. She’ll never know where they come from. Are you on?”
“Wiz pleasure,” said Dumain. “And I’ll tell Booth and Sherman and the others. We’ll have to let them in.”
“Ordinarily,” said Driscoll, “I would be compelled to refuse. Being an actor, and, I think I may add, an artist, my normal condition is that of flatness. But at the present time I have a job. I’m on.”
Thus it was that Lila, on her return from lunch, was surprised by the sight of a floral offering which flamed like a beacon on the top of her desk. She regarded it in wonder while taking off her coat and hat, and glanced up in time to receive a knowing smirk from the hotel clerk. Then she saw the three conspirators observing her furtively with self-conscious indifference. She smiled at them pleasantly, reached up for the vase, and buried her face in the velvet petals. Then, replacing the vase, she seated herself at her desk and picked up a book.
“Gad!” exclaimed Dougherty in high delight. “She kissed ’em! D’ye see that? And say, d’ye notice how they match the pink on her cheeks?”
“My dear fellow,” said Driscoll, “that won’t do. It’s absolutely poetical.”
“Well, and what if it is?” Dougherty was lighting a cigarette at the taper at the cigar stand. “Can’t a prizefighter be a poet?”
“If you are talking of the poetry of motion, yes. But this is the poetry of e-motion.”
Miss Hughes, the Venus at the cigar stand, tittered.
“You Erring Knights are funny,” she observed. “Who bought the roses?”
“Us what?” said Dougherty, ignoring the question. “What kind of knights did you say?”
“Erring Knights.”
“She means knights errant,” put in Driscoll.
“I do not,” denied Miss Hughes.
“It’s a pun. Erring Knights.”
“Well,” said Dougherty, “and why not? I like the title.”
And the title stuck. The lobby loungers of the Hotel Lamartine, purveyors of roses and protectors of beauty in distress, shall henceforth be designated by it.
They formed a curious community. What any one of them might have attempted but for the restraining presence of the others may only be conjectured. Collectively, they became the bulwark of innocence; individually, they were — almost anything.
There was Pierre Dumain, palmist and clairvoyant, with offices just around the corner on Twenty-third Street, a little garrulous Frenchman who always had money.
Tom Dougherty, ex-prizefighter, bookmaker, and sport, who was generally understood to be living under the shadow of a secret.
Bub Driscoll, actor and philosopher, about whom there was known just one fact: he had floored Tom Dougherty.
Billy Sherman, newspaper reporter (at intervals), who was always broke and always thirsty.
Sam Booth, typewriter salesman, who was regarded as somewhat inferior because he rose every morning at nine o’clock to go to work.
Harry Jennings, actor, who was always just going to sign a contract to play leads for Charles Frohman.
What a collection of Broadway butterflies for a young girl to accept as protectors and friends! And yet — you shall see what came of it.
For something over a month the roll of membership remained as given above; then, on a day in October, a candidate presented himself for election.
The corner of the lobby preempted by the Erring Knights was that farthest from the Broadway entrance, opposite the telegraph desk. It was partially hidden from the front by two massive marble pillars, and contained an old worn leather lounge, three or four chairs, and a wide window seat.
This corner had been so long occupied by a dozen or so of the oldest habitués that the advent of a stranger within its sacred precincts was held to be an unwarranted intrusion. This opinion was usually communicated to the stranger with speed and emphasis.
Here it was, at about two o’clock in the afternoon, that Driscoll, Sherman, and Dougherty were seated, discoursing amiably.
Sherman, a tall, dark man, with a general air of assertiveness, was explaining the deficiencies and general inutility of the New York press.
The door opened; Dumain approached. At his side was a stranger, whom he introduced to the others as Mr. Knowlton.
“I believe I’ve met Mr. Knowlton before,” said Sherman, extending a hand.
“You have the advantage of me,” said the newcomer politely.
Sherman was silent, but gazed at him curiously as he turned to Driscoll.
They conversed. Knowlton appeared to be educated, well informed, and a good fellow. He also possessed an indefinable air of good breeding — lacking in the others.
Driscoll proposed a game of billiards.
“You’re on,” the others agreed.
“As for me,” said Knowlton. “I’ll be with you in a minute. Want to send a telegram.”
They nodded and proceeded to the billiard room, while Knowlton approached Lila’s desk.
Lila was reading a book, and handed him a pad of blanks absently, without looking up; and when he pushed the telegram across the counter she took it and counted the words, still without looking at him. It was signed “John Knowlton.”
“Eighty cents, please,” said Lila.
As she raised her head and met the eyes of the stranger she was conscious of a distinct and undeniable shock.
Why, she could not have told. There was nothing alarming in the young man’s appearance; he had a very ordinary face and figure, though the former was marked by an unusually genial and pleasing pair of gray eyes, and bore an expression of uncommon frank good nature. Lila, feeling that she was staring at him, flushed and turned aside, and the gray eyes twinkled with an amused smile as their owner took a ten-dollar bill from his wallet and held it out to her.
“Is this the smallest you have?” asked Lila, opening the cash drawer.
“I believe it is,” said Knowlton. “Sorry; but you see, being a millionaire, I never care to be bothered with anything smaller. Can you make it?”
Lila examined the contents of the drawer.
“If you’ll take some silver.”
“Anything,” Knowlton smiled.
Lila handed him his change.
“You will send it at once?” asked Knowlton.
She nodded. Knowlton appeared to be in no hurry to leave.
“I suppose that since my business is over I should make my bow and depart,” he said finally. “But I like to talk and I hate billiards.”
“Then why do you play?” Lila asked.
“Why? Oh, why do we do anything? I suppose merely to kill time.”
“But that is wrong. A man ought to do something — something worth while. He should never want to kill time, but to use it.”
“A sermon?” Knowlton smiled.
“I beg your pardon,” said Lila, coloring.
“But I was joking.”
“I know — of course — and it was very silly of me. Only I do believe that what I said is true. I have always wished to be a man.”
“Motion denied,” said Knowlton.
“And that means?”
“That it is impossible. That is to say, my guess is that you are thoroughly a woman. Am I right?”
“Do I look so old?”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that! Then we’ll say girl. You are — let’s see — nineteen.”