Mr. Goss turned testy. "Nonsense. Of course not. The musket's only good for fifty yards or so. Goes wild farther than that. Buckshot can't hurt you much at that distance. Let me see there, Charley. Oh, that's nothing. Don't stand there getting blood on the Bokhara. Go take care of it." He picked up the fowling piece from the floor and fussily gave it his attention. He cleaned out the barrel, wiped it all over and put it away in its cupboard. Charley limped out without a word, leaning on his brother, while the other members of the party didn't know which way to look.
But the evening was by no means a failure. Miraculously Mr. Goss turned into the jovial host once more and swept them along to dinner, occasionally letting someone else talk. Charley came back just in time to sit down at the table. He seemed his old debonair self. He had dressed up in his Dr. Prescott outfit, wig and all, and he was hamming it up, using a cane with dashing effect. Philip came back, too, looking solemn. Gwen promptly started talking to him about a town matter in which he was taking an active part, and he began to relax. The food was excellent, the table was beautiful, the candlelight was lovely. Even Mrs. Bewley's attendance to their needs, although clumsy, was somehow baronial. She was a servant of the old school, eager to please. But she had one well-known flaw. Gwen beheld Mrs. Bewley sticking the sugar tongs coyly into her bosom, the dear old kleptomaniac. It was just a habit she had. She didn't mean anything by it. Mrs. Goss always frisked her sternly before she went home. Mrs. Bewley never seemed to mind at all. "WHY, HOW DID THAT GET THERE. OH, TAKE IT, TAKE IT," she would say nobly, when the frying pan turned up in her shirtfront.
There was no hurry to get to the ball. You just had to be traditional and be there for the Grand March. But at last it was time to go. Howard Swan excused himself. He had to go home and get a good night's sleep because he was taking an early plane for New York in the morning.
"What? And miss my great day?" said Charley Goss.
"Believe it or not, there are some states in this country that never even heard of Patriot's Day," said Howard ruefully. "They go right on conducting business as usual, in spite of Dr. Samuel Prescott's famous ride and the shot heard round the world."
Elizabeth accompanied Howard to the door. Mary, coming along to get her boots, could hear him murmuring to her politely. His voice had a gentle, pleading tone. Was this another attempt on Howard's part at the suppression of the letters, getting at Ernie through his wife? But Elizabeth was shaking her head. She sounded tired. "It's been thirty years, Howard ... told you that the first time..."
The rest of the party had to wait for Rowena. She had undertaken major repairs, so her father improvised a sure laugh-getter to while away the time. He rummaged up a damp cocktail napkin and a hard lead pencil with a point like a needle. "Now, Edith, I want you to place the paper on the back of your left hand and write on it your name, address and phone number. Go ahead, now! Go on!"
Edith, basking in attention, struggled with the sharp pencil on the wet napkin. "Oh," she said, giggling, "it hurts! And it's tearing! It's gone right through! Oh, this isn't any fun at all! Why do I have to do it? You're mean! Ouch, it hurts! Oh, I'm not doing it well at all! There, it's all finished! Can I stop now?"
Her father scribbled on an envelope while she talked, snickering. When she was done he told her he was going to tell her what she would say to her husband on her wedding night. He read her words back to her, guffawing so hard he couldn't finish. Edith tried to laugh, but she turned an ugly purplish-red. Rowena walked into the room, looking freshly smashing. "It'll be different with her, eh, Homer?" said Ernest. He winked at him. "And some lucky fellow!" Homer winked gallantly back.
"Ernest, you're impossible," said Mrs. Goss. She looked uphappy. This was her formula for husband-misbehaving-in-front-of-guests.
The ball was in full fling when they got to the Armory. Tom came rushing in just in time for the Grand March. Gwen pleaded her delicate condition, so he snatched up Mary and marched her off with the selectmen and their wives at the head of the line. Johnny McPhale's Orchestra brayed "Off We Go into the Wild Blue Yonder," the electric lights shone through the transparent red-white-and-blue bunting, and hundreds of pairs of feet shuffled rhythmically around the big room. The Captain of the National Guard with huge pointing gestures aimed the column left and right and soon had people marching four, then eight, then sixteen abreast. Mary found her arm hooked into that of the Chief of the Concord Police, Jimmy Flower. He was a small gnomelike man with a bald head who looked like one of the Seven Dwarfs. She beamed down on his five feet one-quarter inch and said hello to his wife Isabelle.
"Jimmy," she said, "when is Isabelle going to give you a divorce so you can marry me?"
It was a joke they had. Jimmy craned his neck up at her. "What's the matter, Mary? Haven't you got a boyfriend yet? When in heck are you going to get married anyhow?"
"When you get down on your knees, that's when. I'm just waiting around, withering on the vine. What's the matter, aren't I pretty enough for you?"
"It isn't that. I'm just scared I couldn't carry you across the threshold, that's all."
"Well, what if I carry you?"
"Say, that's a good idea. How about it, Isabelle?"
"Sure," said Isabelle. "But only if you promise to take Frankie and Roggie and Linda and Sharon and the baby. Especially the baby. Then I'll kick up my heels and be fancy free. Who knows? I might find me another beau."
"Oh?" said Jimmy darkly. "Like whom?"
"I don't now. Some nice tall fella. Say, Mary, you know who I think is cute? That Homer Kelly. Boy, he's my type! You know, the Abraham Lincoln type? Say, Mary, he must be six feet six, how about him for you? He's cute."
Mary lost interest in the conversation. It had taken a bad turn. He was not either cute. "Well, he's not my type."
The bandleader spoke hugely into the microphone. "Ladeez and gentlemeeeeen, if you willlll, the Graaaand Waaaaltzzzz!" Tom obediently gave Mary a big dancing-school shove and propelled her strongly around the floor.
Isabelle Flower looked across her husband's head at Mary. "She's stuck on him," she said.
"Mary? Stuck on Tom Hand?"
"No, stupid. Stuck on Homer Kelly."
"But she just said..."
"Take my word for it," said Isabelle. "She's nuts about him."
"Oh, go on. You women. You know who Homer Kelly is, don't you?"
"Some kind of a writer, isn't he?"
"No, I mean besides that." He told her.
"No kidding?" said Isabelle. "Well, I'll be darned."
*10*
"I hear the Governor comes to Concord today."
"Yes, I am going down to buy a lock for our frontdoor." —Henry Thoreau
The Governor of Massachusetts turned off his alarm clock, groaned, rolled over and sat up. It was April 19th, Patriot's Day. There was that ceremony out in Concord. For Chris'sake, he hadn't written his speech yet. He punched his pillow, lay down again and shut his eyes, seeking inspiration from on high. Of course he could always gas away about the forefathers. He could do that at the drop of a hat. But perhaps something more was called for here. Some quotation, some noble scrap of poetry. The Governor lay flat on his back, absentmindedly stroking the stiff hairs of his grey mustache. Then inspiration came to him, and he opened his eyes gratefully. There was that old poem, why, he practically knew it by heart already. How did it go?
Listen, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere...