There came to her side a strong man, browned and dressed carelessly in the best of clothes, with his hat in his hand.
«Lady,» said the Man from Nome, respectfully, «excuse me for speaking to you, but I—I—I saw you on the street, and—and — »
«Oh, gee!» remarked the Girl from Sieber–Mason's, glancing up with the most capable coolness. «Ain't there any way to ever get rid of you mashers? I've tried everything from eating onions to using hatpins. Be on your way, Freddie.»
«I'm not one of that kind, lady,» said the Man from Nome — «honest, I'm not. As I say, I saw you on the street, and I wanted to know you so bad I couldn't help followin' after you. I was afraid I wouldn't ever see you again in this big town unless I spoke; and that's why I done so.»
Miss Colby looked once shrewdly at him in the dim light on the ferry–boat. No; he did not have the perfidious smirk or the brazen swagger of the lady–killer. Sincerity and modesty shone through his boreal tan. It seemed to her that it might be good to hear a little of what he had to say.
«You may sit down,» she said, laying her hand over a yawn with ostentatious politness; «and—mind—don't get fresh or I'll call the steward.»
The Man from Nome sat by her side. He admired her greatly. He more than admired her. She had exactly the looks he had tried so long in vain to find in a woman. Could she ever come to like him? Well, that was to be seen. He must do all in his power to stake his claim, anyhow.
«My name's Blayden,» said he — «Henry Blayden.»
«Are you real sure it ain't Jones?» asked the girl, leaning toward him, with delicious, knowing raillery.
«I'm down from Nome,» he went on with anxious seriousness. «I scraped together a pretty good lot of dust up there, and brought it down with me.»
«Oh, say!» she rippled, pursuing persiflage with engaging lightness, «then you must be on the White Wings force. I thought I'd seen you somewhere.»
«You didn't see me on the street to–day when I saw you.»
«I never look at fellows on the street.»
«Well, I looked at you; and I never looked at anything before that I thought was half as pretty.»
«Shall I keep the change?»
«Yes, I reckon so. I reckon you could keep anything I've got. I reckon I'm what you would call a rough man, but I could be awful good to anybody I liked. I've had a rough time of it up yonder, but I beat the game. Nearly 5,000 ounces of dust was what I cleaned up while I was there.»
«Goodness!» exclaimed Miss Colby, obligingly sympathetic. «It must be an awful dirty place, wherever it is.»
And then her eyes closed. The voice of the Man from Nome had a monotony in its very earnestness. Besides, what dull talk was this of brooms and sweeping and dust? She leaned her head back against the wall.
«Miss,» said the Man from Nome, with deeper earnestness and monotony, «I never saw anybody I liked as well as I do you. I know you can't think that way of me right yet; but can't you give me a chance? Won't you let me know you, and see if I can't make you like me?»
The head of the Girl from Sieber–Mason's slid over gently and rested upon his shoulder. Sweet sleep had won her, and she was dreaming rapturously of the Wholesale Fish Dealers' Assistants' ball.
The gentleman from Nome kept his arms to himself. He did not suspect sleep, and yet he was too wise to attribute the movement to surrender. He was greatly and blissfully thrilled, but he ended by regarding the head upon his shoulder as an encouraging preliminary, merely advanced as a harbinger of his success, and not to be taken advantage of.
One small speck of alloy discounted the gold of his satisfaction. Had he spoken too freely of his wealth? He wanted to be liked for himself.
«I want to say, Miss,» he said, «that you can count on me. They know me in the Klondike from Juneau to Circle City and down the whole length of the Yukon. Many a night I've laid in the snow up there where I worked like a slave for three years, and wondered if I'd ever have anybody to like me. I didn't want all that dust just myself. I thought I'd meet just the right one some time, and I done it to–day. Money's a mighty good thing to have, but to have the love of the one you like best is better still. If you was ever to marry a man, Miss, which would you rather he'd have?»
«Cash!»
The word came sharply and loudly from Miss Colby's lips, giving evidence that in her dreams she was now behind her counter in the great department store of Sieber–Mason.
Her head suddenly bobbed over sideways. She awoke, sat straight, and rubbed her eyes. The Man from Nome was gone.
«Gee! I believe I've been asleep,» said Miss Colby «Wonder what became of the White Wings!»
THE TALE OF A TAINTED TENNER
Money talks. But you may think that the conversation of a little old ten–dollar bill in New York would be nothing more than a whisper. Oh, very well! Pass up this sotto voce autobiography of an X if you like. If you are one of the kind that prefers to listen to John D's checkbook roar at you through a megaphone as it passes by, all right. But don't forget that small change can say a word to the point now and then. The next time you tip your grocer's clerk a silver quarter to give you extra weight of his boss's goods read the four words above the lady's head. How are they for repartee?
I am a ten–dollar Treasury note, series of 1901. You may have seen one in a friend's hand. On my face, in the centre, is a picture of the bison Americanus, miscalled a buffalo by fifty or sixty millions of Americans. The heads of Capt. Lewis and Capt. Clark adorn the ends. On my back is the graceful figure of Liberty or Ceres or Maxine Elliot standing in the centre of the stage on a conservatory plant. My references is—or are—Section 3,588, Revised Statutes. Ten cold, hard dollars—I don't say whether silver, gold, lead or iron—Uncle Sam will hand you over his counter if you want to cash me in.
I beg you will excuse any conversational breaks that I make—thanks, I knew you would—got that sneaking little respect and agreeable feeling toward even an X, haven't you? You see, a tainted bill doesn't have much chance to acquire a correct form of expression. I never knew a really cultured and educated person that could afford to hold a ten–spot any longer than it would take to do an Arthur Duffy to the nearest That's All! sign or delicatessen store.
For a six–year–old, I've had a lively and gorgeous circulation. I guess I've paid as many debts as the man who dies. I've been owned by a good many kinds of people. But a little old ragged, damp, dingy five–dollar silver certificate gave me a jar one day. I was next to it in the fat and bad–smelling purse of a butcher.
«Hey, you Sitting Bull,» says I, «don't scrouge so. Anyhow, don't you think it's about time you went in on a customs payment and got reissued? For a series of 1899 you're a sight.»
«Oh, don't get crackly just because you're a Buffalo bill,» says the fiver. «You'd be limp, too, if you'd been stuffed down in a thick cotton–and–lisle–thread under an elastic all day, and the thermometer not a degree under 85 in the store.»
«I never heard of a pocketbook like that,» says I. «Who carried you?»
«A shopgirl,» says the five–spot.
«What's that?» I had to ask.
«You'll never know till their millennium comes,» says the fiver.
Just then a two–dollar bill behind me with a George Washington head, spoke up to the fiver:
«Aw, cut out yer kicks. Ain't lisle thread good enough for yer? If you was under all cotton like I've been to–day, and choked up with factory dust till the lady with the cornucopia on me sneezed half a dozen times, you'd have some reason to complain.»