V
DAVE had not seen Wade put the roses in the cab and the incident engaged his curiosity all the rest of the way to the hotel, for Wade didn't think it necessary to enlighten him. That evening they went to a theatre and Dave found the entertainment more to his liking. Vocally, Lew Fields wasn't Renaud's equal; nor in similar comparison could Miss Ada Lewis be said to rival Miss Cavalieri; but as entertainers Dave maintained the Fields-Lewis combination to be far ahead.
"Course I know," he said, "that this here show tonight ain't high-class like that opera, but it suits me a sight better, partner. I reckon my tastes is sort o' punk, eh? That darned Dutchman certainly is funny, though, ain't he? I ain't laughed so much since I bit my tongue!"
Wade was less interested in the performance than in the audience. There was the possibility that the girl might be there, and although he failed to see her there were several breathless moments when the curve of a cheek or the shape of a brown head deceived him. Afterwards, when they walked up Broadway under the flaring white lights, his eyes were busy every instant searching the throngs, peering into cabs and carriages in the hope of finding her. His heart sang happily, for at any instant he might find himself face to face with her. It was only when they reached Rector's that he gave up hoping. He had telephoned earlier in the evening for a table and the fact that their leisurely walk from the theatre had made them late gave the thin cadaverous captain an opportunity that he didn't intend to miss. He seated them impressively and presented the menu cards with his best flourishes.
"You came very near losing this table, sir," he confided to Wade as he prepared to take the order. "The head wanted to take it, but I held onto it, sir. I didn't know what Mr. Forbes it was—" He paused interrogatively. Wade smiled and handed him a two dollar bill.
"Thanks, captain. It's Mr. Forbes of Lone Mesa. Don't forget."
"No, sir. Thank you, sir. Mr. Forbes of Longacre. Very good, sir. And what will you order, sir? The caviare Astrikan is very nice, sir."
"Want some caviare Astrikan, Dave?" inquired Wade gravely.
"Huh?"
"No, we'll pass that up, I think," said Wade. "My friend's a vegetarian. Bring two cups of gumbo, four French chops with peas, an order of celery, asparagus—hot with French dressing—, two demi-tasse, toasted crackers and Camembert."
The captain pursed his lips.
"I wouldn't advise the Camembert, Mr. Forbes. It's out of season."
"Is it? Close season on Camembert, eh? Well, make it Roquefort, then."
"And what will you drink, sir?"
"A quart of Pol Roger. I'll leave the vintage to you."
"Thank you, sir. Ninety-eight, sir."
When the waiter had taken himself away, Dave, who had been surveying the scene with much interest, said:
"Wade, reckon that gal's here?"
"Not likely," answered Wade, suppressing a smile. "This is hardly the place to find her, Dave."
"Ain't it? Why not?" Wade explained and Dave's interest in the people about him perceptibly increased. Wade didn't eat much of that supper, but his companion did full justice to it. Between courses his attention reverted to a young woman at a neighboring table, and finally his curiosity found voice.
"I reckon the women here ain't all like that, Wade?"
"Like what?" asked Wade absently.
"Well, like what you said. Now that gal over there, reckon she's all right, don't you? Never saw one that looked more innocent in my life, boy."
Wade studied the girl in question a moment. She was dressed expensively but quietly. A sealskin coat draped the chair behind her and a toque of the same material nestled against her dark hair. The face beneath was that of a pale Madonna, with wide, wondering, brown eyes, hung with heavy lashes. Her table companions were three middle-aged men, blasé, weary-eyed. Their waiter was pouring the second bottle of champagne. Wade shrugged his shoulders gravely.
"Rather too innocent, isn't she, Dave?" he asked.
"Reckon that's what's been worryin' me," said Dave with relief. "She looks too much like the hound-dog after he'd et the chicken. Still—I dunno, partner. She's a mighty nice lookin' gal."
But presently the nice looking girl forgot her Madonna pose and sprinkled the shirt-front of the man on her right with wine. The man didn't take the pleasantry kindly and during the ensuing exchange of compliments the Madonna used words that made Dave squirm uncomfortably in his chair. He looked across and found Wade smiling at his discomfiture.
"Boy, I reckon I'm a darned tenderfoot around these diggins," he said with a shake of his head.
It was their last evening together and they prolonged their stay at the little wall table until the room was nearly empty and the orchestra had gone and the yawning waiters had begun to pile the chairs. Then they crossed the quiet, deserted square to the hotel and sought their rooms, Dave somewhat saddened by champagne and disillusionment.
"Reckon that sort of thing goes on here every night," he said, waving his cigar in the general direction of the restaurant.
"Three hundred and sixty-five nights a year, Dave."
This is a hell of a burg, said Dave disgustedly. "Blowin' in money, drinkin' champagne, fussin' with women! I reckon I'm glad I don't have to live here, boy."
"Oh, you mustn't judge New York by what you've seen of her, Dave. That's only one side, and the worst; the side we tenderfeet see when we come here. There's a couple of million decent, quiet, every-day folks living decent, quiet, every-day lives in this town, Dave. Only we don't rub up against 'em, old man."
"That's so," answered Dave thoughtfully. "I reckon there's folks here goes to bed at ten o'clock and eats hash for dinner. Boy, that's a cheerin' thought"
In spite of the lateness of the hour Wade stayed awake for a good hour after his head reached the pillow, his mind occupied with the problem of securing an acquaintance with the girl in the box. And before he went to sleep he had decided on a course of action. He knew just three persons in New York; an elderly lawyer who had been a friend of his father's, a class-mate of his own at college who was teaching at Columbia and a second college acquaintance who was in the advertising business. He would hunt them in turn and find whether they knew Miss Pearse. If by any chance they did he would secure an introduction to that lady, but he wasn't hopeful of gaining his end that way. Neither the college instructor nor the advertising man were social lights, while as for the elderly lawyer, Wade remembered him as a rather offensive, misanthropic old codger, unmarried and living in some small town in New Jersey. No, he could scarcely expect results from that trio of acquaintances, but he would see them nevertheless. If nothing came of it, and he was pretty certain that nothing would, he would go boldly to the Fifty-third Street house, request an audience of Miss Pearse and state his case. She had looked kindly. Wade recalled, and, after all, it was no crime to fall in love with a beautiful girl and no crime to want to meet her. The lady would probably think him crazy at first, but he hoped to be able to convince her of his sanity. He would present what credentials he could, request her to make inquiries as to his respectability and financial standing and, if satisfactory, introduce him to her neice. Oh, it was plain sailing after all. Thereupon he turned over and went to sleep.
The next morning was a busy one. Dave's trunk was to pack and the problem of getting everything into it was appalling. In the end Wade went across the street and bought a big leather bag and saved the day. After an early luncheon they crossed to the station and Wade saw Dave safely installed in his sleeper.
"I put a few things in your trunk, Dave," he said. "Something for you and Minnie, and a few trinkets for the kids. Give them all my love, old man, and wish them a Merry Christmas. There's the bell. Good bye, Dave. Take care of yourself. I'll send you my address as soon as I change quarters."
"Good bye, boy," growled Dave huskily. "You've gave me one good time in New York. I wish you was comin' along back with me, though. Don't you worry about the mine. I'll keep things agoin' there all right. Good bye. When you see that gal you just tell her from me that she can't do no better than take you, an' if you want me to write a good word for you just you let me know. Good-bye, boy, good-bye, an' a Merry Christmas!"
The train moved out and Wade had one last glimpse of Dave's lugubrious countenance at the window. Then he walked back up the platform toward the gates feeling a little bit lonesome. It was going to be rather dull for a day or two without old Dave. Beyond the gate he paused to consider. It was Saturday and it was doubtful if either the lawyer or the advertising man could be found at his office.
To be sure, he might look up their home addresses, but the city seemed suddenly very big and empty and distasteful to him. It looked as though everyone was getting out of it, so great were the throngs hurrying toward the gates, and Wade experienced a desire to himself take train and go somewhere. In the end he returned to the hotel and packed a bag and in the middle of the afternoon found himself speeding northward to his old home city. He spent the night with a distant relative, who was far more surprised than pleased to see him, strolled around the town on Sunday morning with results far from cheering, and took a train back to New York at eleven with a distinct sensation of relief.
The station was almost deserted as he made his way toward the cab-stand and when a waiting-room door swung open and a group of four persons hurried through his attention was attracted.
A porter, laden with bags led the way. Then came a slight, elderly lady with silvery hair, and—yes—beside her trotted the One Girl in the World! A maid scurried along in the rear. A gong clanged warningly, the quartette sped through a gate, the gate slammed shut behind them and Wade woke to action too late. He dashed toward the gateman.
"Wait! Let me through!"
The gateman looked at him calmly and shook his head.
"Too late. Train's starting."
"No, it isn't; those folks aren't on yet. Stretch a point and let me through, can't you?"
"I'd have to see your ticket and by that time you'd be too late," was the untroubled reply. "There's another train at three."
"I dare say," growled Wade. "And there are some more next month, but that doesn't help me any." He looked up at the sign and read: "1:02—Shore Line Express—Bridgeport—New Haven—New London—Westerly—Kingston—Providence—Boston." The train was moving now. The porter swung from a platform and came back toward the gates. Wade waited for him. Why didn't the fool hurry? Perhaps when the gate was opened to let him through Wade could dash by and reach the train after all. It was a heavy one and was moving slowly. But the porter took his time and already it was too late. Wade found a half dollar and as the porter reached him slipped it into his hand.
"Those folks you just put aboard; friends of mine; where are they going?" he asked.
"Boston, boss."
"Sure?"
"Yes, sir; I seen their tickets. They pretty nigh didn't make it. They come up in a automobile an' the young lady says 'Quick, porter, we want the Boston express. I'll give you a dollar if you get us on.'" He chuckled. "Well, I got 'em on. An' I got her ol' dollar."
"Do you know who they are? What their name is?"
"Reckon you know that better'n I do," answered the negro with a broad grin. "You said they was friends of yours."
"Well, when does the next train go to Boston?"
"Three o'clock, sir."
"When does it arrive?"
"Eight-thirty—if she's on time."
"The deuce!" sighed Wade. Far out in the yard the tail end of the Shore Line Express switched itself out of sight.