could escape. And Bailey, that morning, as has been said, was not
looking his best.
"You're lookin' kind o' sick, bo," was Steve's comment. "I guess you
was hittin' it up with the gang last night in one of them lobster
parlours."
Bailey objected to being addressed as "bo," and he was annoyed that
Steve should have guessed the truth respecting his overnight movements.
Still more was he annoyed that Steve's material mind should attribute
to a surfeit of lobster a pallor that was superinduced by a tortured
soul.
"I did...ah...take supper last night, it is true," he said. "But if I am
a little pale to-day, that is not the cause. Things have occurred to
annoy me intensely."
"You should worry!" advised Steve. "Catch!"
The heavy medicine-ball struck Bailey in the chest before he could
bring up his hands and sent him staggering back.
"Damn it, Dingle," he gasped. "Kindly give me warning before you do
that sort of thing."
Steve was delighted. It amused his simple, honest soul to catch Bailey
napping, 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 every
day for weeks? You gotta be ready always. You seen me holding
the pellet. You should oughter have been saying to yourself: 'I gotta
keep an eye on that gink, so's he don't soak me one with that thing
when I ain't looking.' Then you would have caught it and whizzed it
back at me, and maybe, if I hadn't been ready for it, you might have
knocked 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 take
a crack at your pearl stick-pin, do you reckon he's going to drop you a
postal card first? You gotta be ready for him. See what I mean?"
"Let us spar," said Bailey austerely. He had begun to despair of ever
making Steve show him that deference and respect which he considered
due to the son of the house. The more frigid he was, the more genial
and friendly did Steve become. The thing seemed hopeless.
It was a pleasing sight to see Bailey spar. He brought to the task the
measured dignity which characterized all his actions. A left jab from
him had all the majesty of a formal declaration of war. If he was a
trifle slow in his movements for a pastime which demands a certain
agility from its devotees he at least got plenty of exercise and did
himself 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 him
feel better than he had imagined he could feel after that night of
spiritual 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 watches
now returned with doubled force.
"Dingle," he said, "how did I seem to-day?"
"Fine," answered Steve courteously. "You're gettin' to be a regular
terror."
"You think I shape well?"
"Sure."
"I am glad. This morning I am going to thrash a man within an inch of
his 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 he
will get."
Steve eyed him with affectionate interest.
"Well, ain't you the wildcat!" he said. "Who'd have thought it? I'd
always 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 a
kind 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 good
people in this burg."
"I have no objection to telling you that. He is an artist, and his name
is...his name is......"
Wrinkles appeared in Bailey's forehead. His eyes bulged anxiously
behind 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 Kirk
Winfield, hailed a taxicab and drove to the apartment of Mrs. Lora
Delane Porter.
Chapter V Wherein Opposites Agree
The maid who opened the door showed a reluctance to let Bailey in. She
said that Mrs. Porter was busy with her writing and had given orders
that she was not to be disturbed.
Nothing could have infuriated Bailey more. He, Bailey Bannister, was to
be refused admittance because this preposterous woman wished to write!
It was the duty of all decent citizens to stop her writing. If it had
not been for her and her absurd books Ruth would never have made it
necessary for him to pay this visit at all.
"Kindly take my card to Mrs. Porter and tell her that I must see her at
once on a matter of the utmost urgency," he directed.
The domestic workers of America had not been trained to stand up
against Bailey's grand manner. The maid vanished meekly with the card,
and presently returned and requested him to step in.
Bailey found himself in a comfortable room, more like a man's study
than a woman's boudoir. Books lined the walls. The furniture was strong
and plain. At the window, on a swivel-chair before a roll-top desk,
Mrs. Porter sat writing, her back to the door.
"The gentleman, ma'am," announced the maid.
"Sit down," said his aunt, without looking round or ceasing to write.
The maid went out. Bailey sat down. The gentle squeak of the quill pen
continued.
Bailey coughed.
"I have called this morning......"
The left hand of the writer rose and waggled itself irritably above her
left shoulder.
"Aunt Lora," spoke Bailey sternly.
"Shish!" said the authoress. Only that and nothing more. Bailey,
outraged, relapsed into silence. The pen squeaked on.
After what seemed to Bailey a considerable time, the writing ceased. It
was succeeded by the sound of paper vigorously blotted. Then, with
startling suddenness, Mrs. Porter whirled round on the swivel-chair,
tilted it back, and faced him.
"Well, Bailey?" she said.
She looked at Bailey. Bailey looked at her. Her eyes had the curious
effect of driving out of his head what he had intended to say.
"Well?" she said again.
He tried to remember the excellent opening speech which he had prepared
in the cab.
"Good gracious, Bailey!" cried Mrs. Porter, "you have not come here and
ruined my morning's work for the pleasure of looking at me surely? Say
something."
Bailey found his voice.
"I have called to see Ruth, who, I am informed, is with you."
"She is in her room. I made her breakfast in bed. Is there any message
I can give her?"
Bailey suddenly remembered the speech he had framed in the cab.
"Aunt Lora," he said, "I am sorry to have to intrude upon you at so
early an hour, but it is imperative that I see Ruth and ask her to
explain the meaning of a most disturbing piece of news that has come to