James paused for a breath. The hall was silent — ominously silent.
“I have therefore arranged for a program which I am sure will meet with your enthusiastic approval. First, Mr. Henry Hightower, of Philadelphia, will address you on ‘The Power of the Individual in Politics’; second, Mr. John Clay Brown will deliver his famous lecture on ‘Honest Government: Why Not?’; third, Professor Carlton Carlisle, of Columbia University, will talk about ‘Self-Reliance as a Power for Good’; and lastly, I myself shall have a few words to say about the future welfare of this district.
“One thing more: owing to the length of the speeches, there will be an intermission of one hour between the second and third. This hour will be spent in the consumption of a little refreshment, for which I have arranged, and in the promotion of good fellowship among us all.
“I now have the honor to introduce to you Mr. Henry Hightower, of Philadelphia.”
At the conclusion of this remarkable speech the feelings of the district, in Columbia Hall assembled, can hardly be imagined; they certainly cannot be described. Uppermost were wild rage, blind anger, and unreasoning fury, in order named. They were betrayed, insulted, cheated, and outraged.
Mr. Henry Hightower, of Philadelphia, arose from his seat. He advanced to the front of the platform. He cleared his throat. What would have happened to him, to Honest James Hamlin and Mr. John Clay Brown and Professor Carlton Carlisle, will forever remain unknown; for at that very moment there sounded through the open windows from the street below the strains of “Wearing of the Green,” in loud-toned brass. Mr. Henry Hightower, looking through a window from this point of vantage on the platform, saw some twenty or thirty men marching down the avenue behind a brass band. In their midst was a huge banner reading:
Third Annual Outing and Games of the Mike O’Toole Association
At Kelly’s Casino, Whitestone, L. I.
But though Mr. Henry Hightower was the only one who could see, everyone could hear. For a moment there was intense silence. A quiver like an electric shock ran through the throng. Then Dan Murphy leaped to his feat and started for the door.
“It’s O’Toole!” he shouted. “Come on, boys!”
Immediately the hall was in an uproar. The door was jammed by the sudden onslaught of struggling, pushing humanity. James, on the edge of the platform, was shouting something nobody heard. Women fought with men in the mad stampede for freedom.
Shorty Benson, standing by the window, saw, in the street below, Mike O’Toole greeting with outstretched hands the first to get down the stairs. He heard the band strike up with renewed vigor. He turned to the door inside and saw the last of the nine hundred and sixty-four rush for the stairs; also, he saw Honest James Hamlin running toward him with frantic gestures.
“What shall we do, Shorty?” wailed James helplessly. “What shall we do?”
Shorty looked once more at the throng on the street below. They were forming to march. The band was going stronger than ever. Now they moved forward.
It was more than Shorty could bear. “Do what you damn please!” he yelled as he ran for the door. “Go to hell! I’m going to the picnic!”
Two Kisses
This romance was the only Stout story to appear in Breezy Stories, which was published by the C. H. Young Publishing Company, the same publisher as Young’s Magazine, from which it was spun off. Though it is largely forgotten today, a pulp historian describes Breezy Stories as “one of the most successful fiction anthologies in the history of American magazines.”
It is difficult nowadays to write a story about a princess, because no one believes in them anymore. Formerly it was all right to begin, “Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess,” and a thousand ears would open for you. But if anyone should try it now he would probably be brought up with the socialistic statement, “By July 15th, 1942, there will be no kings, and therefore no princesses, left in the world.” Or, what would be still worse, by the realistic query, “Did she have indigestion?” It is the modern spirit, and it is called “getting to the bottom of things.”
Anyway, Veronica Tellon was a modern princess. She lived in the winter in a palace in a great city, and in the summer in another palace in a smaller city by the sea. She had beautiful clothes and a checkbook that replenished itself automatically, like the fabulous pitcher, as soon as she emptied it: she never went anywhere unless in a luxurious automobile or private car, and every necessary action except breathing and swallowing food was performed for her by servants.
Her person was neither beautiful nor plain. Her neat, medium-sized figure was raised to distinction by the art of the dressmaker; she had an interesting face, with eyes a little too large for the delicate and well-formed nose and mouth, and the contrast between her mass of dark hair and white transparent skin was somewhat startling. She was aware of the latter fact and took advantage of it now and then to make an impression. Even princesses are not above a projection of personality now and then, especially when they are only a year or two beyond twenty.
Miss Tellon sat in front of her dressing-table mirror one evening uttering blasphemies against herself. Her mode of expression was inelegant and forcible.
“Absurd little fool!” she said aloud to the reflection in the mirror.
Then, after an interval of silence, she turned to the waiting-maid who hovered in the background.
“Jennie,” she declared resolutely, “you may take this off. I am not going down this evening.”
There seemed to be something remarkable in this statement, for the maid’s pretty little round eyes opened in astonishment. Then, quickly aware of her involuntary impertinence, she lowered her lashes and murmured in acquiescence:
“Very well, mademoiselle.”
Her mistress looked at her for a moment, then burst into laughter.
“It amused even you,” she observed with bitter amusement. “It would be amazing, wouldn’t it, if I dared to act as I please. Of course I’m going down. Here, fasten this pin.”
Jennie snapped the brooch in place, added a last touch here and there, and Miss Tellon’s toilet was completed. She arose with a sigh, patted her hair on the sides, looked again in the mirror and left for the drawing-room.
She found it full of men and women conversing in the jerky, desultory manner of those momentarily expecting interruption — in this instance, the call to dinner. She knew them all, from her father and mother down to little Lucille Cowan, who had had her coming-out dance at Sherry’s two nights before. There was old Morton Crevel, associated with Veronica’s father in the Street, and his wife; Sir Upton Macleod and Lady Macleod; the two Payne girls; Tommie DuMont and his Russian cousin with the explosive name; Albert Crevel, whose approaching marriage with Miss Veronica Tellon was looked forward to as the most important nuptial event of the season; and, to finish, two or three other young ladies and half a dozen scientists, authors and musicians — for Mrs. Henry Tellon ran to celebrities.
At dinner Miss Tellon found herself between Tommie DuMont and his Russian cousin, and directly across the table from Albert Crevel, her fiancé. Thus she could not avoid looking at him, nor did she want to; she was glad of the opportunity. Throughout the weary succession of courses she kept her eyes on him without seeming to do so; what she saw was a good-looking young fellow with premature lines of experience around the fine dark eyes, a straight, ordinary nose above full lips, and a firm round chin. But the thought in her mind was this, that she saw nothing more. And isn’t a girl supposed to see something more than a mere set of passable human features in the face of the man she is about to marry?