The mayor of Reuton turned away, and his dog slid into the shadows.
“Have I your promise to stay to dinner?” went on Magee. No answer came from the trio in the dusk. “Silence gives consent,” he added gaily. “You must excuse me while I dress. Bland, will you inform Mr. Peters that we are to have company to dinner? Handle him gently. Emphasize the fact that our guests are men.”
He ran up the stairs. At the top of the second flight he met the girl, and her eyes, he thought, shone in the dark.
“Oh, I’m so glad,” she whispered.
“Glad of what?” asked Magee.
“That you are not on their side,” she answered.
Mr. Magee paused at the door of number seven.
“I should say not,” he remarked. “Whatever it’s all about, I should say not. Put on your prettiest gown, my lady. I’ve invited the mayor to dinner.”
Chapter VII
The Mayor Begins a Vigil
One summer evening, in dim dead days gone by, an inexperienced head waiter at Baldpate Inn had attempted to seat Mrs. J. Sanderson Clark, of Pittsburgh, at the same table with the unassuming Smiths, of Tiffin, Ohio. The remarks of Mrs. Clark, who was at the time busily engaged in trying to found a first family, lingered long in the memory of those who heard them. So long, in fact, that Miss Norton, standing with Mr. Magee in the hotel office awaiting the signal from Peters that dinner was ready, could repeat them almost verbatim. Mr. Magee cast a humorous look about.
“Lucky the manners and customs of the summer folks aren’t carried over into the winter,” he said. “Imagine a Mrs. Clark asked to sit at table with the mayor of Reuton and his picturesque but somewhat soiled friend, Mr. Max. I hope the dinner is a huge success.”
The girl laughed.
“The natural nervousness of a host,” she remarked. “Don’t worry. The hermit and his tins won’t fail you.”
“It’s not the culinary end that worries me,” smiled Magee. “It’s the repartee and wit. I want the mayor to feel at home. Do you know any good stories ascribed to Congressman Jones, of the Asquewan district?”
Together they strolled to a window. The snow had begun to fall again, and the lights of the little hamlet below showed but dimly through the white blur.
“I want you to know,” said the girl, “that I trust you now. And when the time comes, as it will soon — to-night — I am going to ask you to help me. I may ask a rather big thing, and ask you to do it blindly, just trusting in me, as I refused to trust in you.” She stopped and looked very seriously into Mr. Magee’s face.
“I’m mighty glad,” he answered in a low tone. “From the moment I saw you weeping in the station I’ve wanted to be of help to you. The station agent advised me not to interfere. He said to become involved with a weeping woman meant trouble. The fool. As though any trouble—”
“He was right,” put in the girl, “it probably will mean trouble.”
“As though any storm,” finished Mr. Magee “would not be worth the rainbow of your smile at the end.”
“A very fancy figure,” laughed she. “But storms aren’t nice.”
“There are a few of us,” replied Magee, “who can be merry through the worst of them because of the rainbow to come.”
For answer, she flattened her finely-modeled nose into shapelessness against the cold pane. Back of them in the candle-lighted room, the motley crew of Baldpate’s winter guests stood about in various attitudes of waiting. In front of the fire the holder of the Chair of Comparative Literature quoted poetry to Mrs. Norton, and probably it never occurred to the old man that the woman to whom he talked was that nightmare of his life — a peroxide blonde. Ten feet away in the flickering half-light, the immense bulk of the mayor of Reuton reposed on the arm of a leather couch, and before him stood his lithe unpleasant companion, Lou Max, side by side with Mr. Bland, whose talk of haberdashery was forever stilled. The candles sputtered, the storm angrily rattled the windows; Mr. Peters flitted like a hairy wraith about the table. So the strange game that was being played at Baldpate Inn followed the example of good digestion and waited on appetite.
What Mr. Magee flippantly termed his dinner party was seated at last, and there began a meal destined to linger long in the memories of those who partook if it. Puzzled beyond words, the host took stock of his guests. Opposite him, at the foot of the table, he could see the lined tired face of Mrs. Norton, dazed, uncomprehending, a little frightened. At his right the great red acreage of Cargan’s face held defiance and some amusement; beside it sneered the cruel face of Max; beyond that Mr. Bland’s countenance told a story of worry and impotent anger. And on Mr. Magee’s left sat the professor, bearded, spectacled, calm, seemingly undisturbed by this queer flurry of events, beside the fair girl of the station who trusted Magee at last. In the first few moments of silence Mr. Magee compared her delicate features with the coarse knowing face of the woman at the table’s foot, and inwardly answered “No.”
Without the genial complement of talk the dinner began. Mr. Peters appeared with another variety of his canned soup, whereupon the silence was broken by the gastronomic endeavors of Mr. Max and the mayor. Mr. Magee was reflecting that conversation must be encouraged, when Cargan suddenly spoke.
“I hope I ain’t putting you folks out none,” he remarked with obvious sarcasm. “It ain’t my habit to drop in unexpected like this. But business—”
“We’re delighted, I’m sure,” said Mr. Magee politely.
“I suppose you want to know why I’m here,” the mayor went on. “Well—” he hesitated — “it’s like this—”
“Dear Mr. Cargan,” Magee broke in, “spare us, I pray. And spare yourself. We have had explanations until we are weary. We have decided to drop them altogether, and just to take it for granted that, in the words of the song, we’re here because we’re here.”
“All right,” replied Cargan, evidently relieved. “That suits me. I’m tired explaining, anyhow. There’s a bunch of reformers rose up lately in Reuton — maybe you’ve heard about ’em. A lovely bunch. A white necktie and a half-portion of brains apiece. They say they’re going to do for me at the next election.”
Mr. Max laughed harshly from the vicinity of his soup.
“They wrote the first joke book, them people,” he said.
“Well,” went on Cargan, “there ain’t nobody so insignificant and piffling that people won’t listen to ’em when they attack a man in public life. So I’ve had to reply to this comic opera bunch, and as I say, I’m about wore out explaining. I’ve had to explain that I never stole the town I used to live in in Indiana, and that I didn’t stick up my father with a knife. It gets monotonous. So I’m much obliged to you for passing the explanations up. We won’t bother you long, me and Lou. I got a little business here, and then we’ll mosey along. We’ll clear out about nine o’clock.”
“No,” protested Magee. “So soon? We must make it pleasant for you while you stay. I always hate hosts who talk about their servants — I have a friend who bores me to death because he has a Jap butler he believes was at Mukden. But I think I am justified in calling your attention to ours — Mr. Peters, the Hermit of Baldpate Mountain. Cooking is merely his avocation. He is writing a book.”
“That guy,” remarked Cargan, incredulous.
“What do you know about that?” asked Mr. Bland. “It certainly will get a lot of hot advertising if it ever appears. It’s meant to prove that all the trouble in the world has been caused by woman.”
The mayor considered.
“He’s off — he’s nutty, that fellow,” he announced. “It ain’t women that cause all of the trouble.”