McClure's Magazine/Volume 25/Number 5/The Botanist and the Machine

by Mrs. Wilson Woodrow

 

THE BOTANIST AND THE MACHINE

BY

MRS. WILSON WOODROW

AUTHOR OF “THE NEW MISSIONER,” “OLD MAN JOHNSON’S SUCCESSOR,” ETC.

ILLUSTRATED BY F. WALTER TAYLOR

ZENITH was fairly throbbing with events, and not unnaturally excited over them; for a small mining village, situated on the very edge of timber line, is singularly dependent on its own resources for interest and entertainment.

In the first place, it was drawing near the season for the community to choose a mayor, always a circumstance of sufficient importance to create a vast ripple in the stagnant waters of twice-told village gossip—gossip which deals exclusively with the affairs of one's neighbors and the varying output of the different mines.

This year, moreover, the momentous political event was invested with certain extraneous elements which had developed a spirit of more than ordinary partizanship among the voters. The contest for the office lay between two young miners of the place, Harris Creamer and Dave Bascum; and both were fully on their mettle.

At first glance this might seem difficult to understand; there being no salary attached to the position and few duties, it could hardly be regarded as a political plum. But this election differed from previous campaigns in that through the dun-colored woof of party policy, ran the golden thread of romance.

In fact, the situation was instinct with sentimental interest, and this was contributed by Birdie Green, the village seamstress and the village belle, who although she had arrived at her twenty-sixth year in a Colorado mining camp was still unmarried. And this in spite of certain obvious attractions consisting of curly, red hair, laughing blue eyes, and a frank and gay manner. All sunshine and daylight was Birdie Green; yet, in the village mind, there was something sinister attached to her personality, and her name was never mentioned without the blasting title of “Hoo-doo!”” accompanying it, for three times had Birdie been on the very eve of marriage when sickness or accident had bereft her of a bridegroom.

She, however, being a normal and natural young woman of a temperament to let willingly the dead past bury its dead, accepted without any particular apprehension Harris Creamer's manifestly timid attentions, which had ultimately led to an engagement, although the date of the wedding suffered continual postponement because of her lover's superstitious fears.

Creamer, a conceited, weak-chinned fellow, had never overcome certain distinct misgivings concerning the evil spell his promised bride was supposed to exercise, and he held many uneasy communings with himself over the fate of her former suitors. On the whole, he viewed it as a grievous destiny that he should have been irresistibly drawn to Birdie Green; and to add to his mental dismay she had recently proved so alluring that in a rash moment, when trepidation was temporarily swallowed up in ardor, he had urged her to “name the day.”

As if in punishment for his temerity, the very next morning he received an intimation that by stretching forth his hand for the prize he stood an excellent chance of being nominated as the candidate of his party for mayor. In that hour all his fears came home to roost. He argued to himself and to Birdie that, since the question of his election must be decided within a few weeks, it were unwise to hasten the preparations for the wedding, and thus tempt the malign influence which delighted in hurling thunderbolts at her admirers.

With a certain shrewd insight, he also discerned that she might be made to serve an excellent purpose in the campaign; and so, it was announced from headquarters and quickly disseminated through the camp that, “if Harris Creamer's 'lected, him an' Birdie Green is goin' to get married right off.”

“Well,” remarked the bluff and burly Mrs. Nitschkan, after commenting on this fact in an across-the-fence conference with some of her friends, “what we got to do now is to hustle right out an' 'lect Harris.”

“I say so, too,” affirmed Mrs. Thomas. “I think it's kind o' bold of Birdie, stalking 'round here unmarried to all the dances an' everything; an' her twenty-six years old. She's been waitin', Lord knows how long, on Harris; an' now if he ain't 'lected, an' they don't get married, why they ain't no show of her ever gettin' anybody. All the boys is dead scared of her anyways. It's her last chance, girls; an' we 'll have to make a house-to-house canvass.”

“You remember what happened the last time we made a house-to-house canvass,” said the tiny but indomitable Mrs. Evans with icy significance. “More 'n one of us got our jaws slapped. But,” briskly, “that's neither here, nor there. What I want to talk to you girls about is this. My man, Sile, is chairman of the committee that's workin' for Harris, an' he's goin' over to Mt. Tabor this morning to get some bills printed. Now, I think I'll go along, an' see if that printer won't throw in Birdie's an' Harris's weddin' invitations for the same price; an' then, as soon as Harris is elected, we can spring 'em on the folks. Harris won't dare back out, if he knows we 've got the invitations.”

“You certainly are got a head full of ideas, Evans,” cried Mrs. Nitschkan, slapping her heartily on the back. “You just go right along an' do that. But see here, girls, there's a new vote in the camp to be looked after.”

“Who iss dat?” asked Mrs. Landvetter, leaning against the fence like a great feather bolster.

“That 'Lunger' that's been here all winter, takin' the open air cure—that magpie, with his black hair, an' eyes an' clothes, an' his white face an' shirt. A bot'nist, they call him. Well, he's awful thick with Dave Bascum.”

“I don't care how thick he is with him, so long as he don't vote for him,” said Mrs, Evans with determination. 'And us girls have got to see to that. I guess we ain't worked some in politics for nothing.”

That this was no idle boast, and that these ladies had not been inept scholars in the school of practical politics may be adduced from the fact that shortly after this conversation took place one of the Scions of the village summed up the situation with due finality from his cane-seated chair in Tom Houston's assaying office.

“As far as I can see,” he announced oracularly, “Harris Creamer's got the matter cinched. The bossy women in this camp is determined to see Birdie Green married an' settled; and this is her chance. Maybe Harris ain't the fellow we would have chose for her; but he suits her, an' with the women all workin' for him, I don't see how they's any show for him to get beat.”

Thus was the mayoralty almost unanimously conceded to Creamer, save by his enemies and a few intimate friends of his opponent. It was the opponent himself who finally determined to divert the tide of public opinion into his own channels, although the manner of doing so had not yet suggested itself to him.

Dave Bascum was a gay, devil-may-care fellow, optimistic and happy, handsome in a gypsy way, and a general favorite of the gods and men, one not used to being gainsaid by fortune, and it went hard with him. He had gone into this village contest on the insistence of his friends, and without giving the matter any particular thought. But having once accepted his candidacy, he found himself possessed of an unexpected but earnest desire to win the game.

As the passion of emulation stirred within him, he assured himself that he did not mind being beaten in a fair fight, but he did object to a tame, spiritless walk-over. Another source of irritation was Creamer's crowing air of victory, his cock-sureness, his swaggering certainty of success.

But, although goaded to fresh activity by this stinging thorn, Dave Bascum's wits worked to no purpose. In the present state of super-sentimental village consciousness, his cause seemed hopeless even to himself.

One evening as he sat brooding over the fire in the cabin where he “bached” alone, the “Lunger Bot'nist,” as Mrs. Nitschkan had nicknamed him, dropped in, according to his frequent custom, to smoke and talk. Naturally, they soon fell into a discussion of the present topic of absorbing interest in Zenith—the political situation; and Bascum spent himself in telling Professor James MacMillan, lounging opposite him, long and lank and somewhat saturnine, of the joy it would be to get up in the Town Hall packed with miners, and tell Creamer what he thought of him.

[Illustration: “Bascum gazed at him a moment with a dawning apprehension of bis meaning” ]

“Oh, I'd make him a speech,” he cried, “I'd say, 'If a man can't get elected without shieldin' himself behind a petticoat an' a girl's natural longin' for a home of her own, why he'd better stay out of the runnin.'

“I'll tell you what I think of Creamer, boys,' I'd say, 'I think he's a d—— coward. I don't care whether a girl's a hoo-doo or not. I don't care whether Tom Ward an' Slim Barker an' Joe Rafferty all died or got killed after they was engaged to Birdie Green, or not. They was good fellows an' gentlemen, an' probably glad to die for a lady. But if Miss Green has consented to marry Creamer, why the dickens don't they get married now? 'Cause he's afraid, my friends. 'Cause he cares more for the office than for the woman he loves. That's why, my friends, that I oppose this man.'”

[Illustration: “IN TRUTH, HE FELT BOTH COMFORTABLE AND WELL ENTERTAINED”]

He paused with uplifted arm and then knocked the ashes from his pipe into the grate. “Aw, what's the use;” he murmured, “they would n't listen. But it's a shame. Birdie Green is too nice a girl to get such a skunk. A nice, good girl an' pretty too. Yes, I always thought Birdie was——”

“Well,” asked MacMillan leaning forward with a sparkle of fun in his somber eyes, “why do not you——”

Bascum gazed at him a moment with a dawning apprehension of his meaning and then fell back in his chair with a sudden burst of laughter.

“By Gad, I 'll do it!” smiting his knee, “I 'll fix his clock for him. Since they 're making Birdie Green a campaign issue, I don't see what copyright Creamer's got on her. Let's see, there's goin' to be a dance at the Town Hall to-morrow night. I'll see then what can be done about cuttin' Mr. Harris Creamer out. All's fair in love an' war, Professor, an' as far as I can see, this is both.”

MacMillan smiled into the fire. “You 're bucking against the machine, my boy, and petticoat government is as subtle as Indian warfare.”

But his warning fell upon barren soil, for the next night when the lamps upon the unplastered, gray-painted walls of the Town Hall threw their smoky radiance over the carefully waxed if slightly uneven floor, Birdie Green, bewitching in a dark green skirt and a white shirt-waist, her curly hair tumbled, her cheeks aglow and her eyes brilliant with excitement, danced the “Boston,” the “Princess” and the “Bon-ton” with Dave Bascum, in addition to various polkas and waltzes.

It is needless to state that there was a storm of comment throughout the assemblage and considerable rallying of Harris Creamer, who, with difficulty, concealed his emotions and received it with a lofty smile.

“Truth is, boys,” he explained, “Birdie's kind-hearted an' she tried her best to-night to be nice to poor Dave. It was my special request.”

He also deemed it best to ignore the subject as he and Birdie walked home through the velvety, black night, for there was that in her manner which did not invite reproof; but when he and all Zenith had the further surprise of seeing Dave Bascum and herself stroll up the mountain road together the following Sunday afternoon, he felt the necessity of a dignified expostulation.

To his dismay, this was received in anything but the spirit that he had anticipated. Hitherto, Birdie had always accepted his provisos as to the time of their marriage, and his frequent and somewhat complaining references to her alleged baleful tendencies with a subdued and proper meekness; but now he found her wilful, impatient of restraint, resolutely opposed to slighting Bascum, or treating his attentions as the insult which Harris contended they were. All of his arguments, remonstrances and reproofs, she met with a feminine and, to her, perfectly satisfactory, “I don't care.”

As a consequence, Creamer left her more in anger than in sorrow; but as he walked away from the house with the trill of her careless and offensively joyous song in his ears, he realized the real insecurity of his position and the sickening fact that owing to Bascum's “'dam' foolin',” as he called it, Birdie now had the whip-hand, for he was fully aware that his sole hope of election rested on his ability to keep up the sentimental interest which encompassed him.

He therefore repressed his natural inclination to lay down the law in regard to Birdie's acquaintance with Bascum in no uncertain terms, and, instead, forced himself to mention the subject with an uneasy jocularity.

To add to his discomfiture, the Silver City Mills, of which Bascum was foreman, had laid off their men for a few days so that Dave had the leisure to persist in his attentions with an ardor which was far from being simulated and which caused Harris the liveliest apprehension.

Now it happened that the third afternoon that Bascum and Birdie sauntered up the mountain side together, the Ladies' Aid Society had assembled at Mrs. Landvetter's home. It was an event of unusual importance, for Professor MacMillan had consented to accept the hospitality of this politico-religious organization, although he fully realized that there was probably more design than hospitality in the seemingly innocent desire for his presence.

“We kind o' feel that we ain't showed you the respect that had ought to be showed a college perfessor,” cooed Mrs. Thomas, who had been deputed to present the invitation, for as Mrs. Nitschkan trenchantly remarked, “We all know Marthy Thomas is a d— fool; but they's no denying that she can get around any man that ever lived.”

“There won't be no one there but jes' 'a few women,” continued Mrs. Thomas, letting her long lashes sweep her pink and white cheeks and dimpling engagingly, “but we knew you would n't mind, bein' a Perfessor and used to classes of 'em.”

And MacMillan accepted and sat among the feminine group with an ease and nonchalance which would have aroused the envy and admiration of every miner in Zenith. In truth, he felt both comfortable and well entertained. The sunny kitchen was filled with the fragrant and mingled aromas of tea and coffee. Upon the table were several plates containing various kinds of cake to be partaken of when the tea was brewed and the coffee boiled. In anticipation of this refection, Mrs. Nitschkan was noisily setting out cups and saucers while the other members of the Society plied their needles.

“Your cold's considerable better, ain't it, Perfessor?” asked Mrs. Evans, by the way of making polite conversation.

“Very much better, thank you,” returned MacMillan. “My lungs were only slightly affected.”

The women glanced covertly at one another with faintly shocked expressions on their faces. The wayfarers in the mountains, sent thither by order of their physician, speak lightly of their “colds,” or “slight affections of the throat;” and such brutal facts as diseased lungs are never mentioned.

Mrs. Thomas shook her head mournfully. “It's funny,” she said; “but scarce anybody comes here for their lungs that they don't get better for a spell, an' then they give out sudden, an' we girls is got to take turns nursin' 'em.”

Mrs. Evans stirred uneasily. The trend the conversation had taken did not appeal to her native sense of tact. His vote was yet to be won.

“Oh, you 'll be all right as soon as you can get out of doors, an' dig your flowers,” she said to create a diversion, “spring's comin' up fast. Look.” She drew aside the stiffly-ironed, white muslin curtain before the window and let them gaze out upon the timid radiance of spring in the mountains, the tender gray of the sage bushes against the pink rocks, the tender green of the unfolding leaves of aspen and maple against the blue sky.

Suddenly she started violently, “Well!” explosively. “If here ain't Birdie Green an' Dave Bascum out together again.”

There was an immediate craning of heads. “I do' know what to think of Birdie,” deplored Mrs. Thomas.

“Perhaps she likes Bascum the better of the two,” murmured MacMillan idly stirring his tea.

“Umph,” sniffed Mrs. Evans, snapping off a bit of thread as she picked up her sewing again, “We all know how it is with Birdie an' I 'Il jus' explain it to you Perfessor. It's this way, Birdie Green ain't talked to me again and again without my knowin' some of the workin's of her mind. Me an' Mis' Thomas has been right with her through all her afflictions, ain't we, Mis' Thomas? When Joe Rafferty was blown to bits in the “Gold Bug” because he waited too long after he lit his fuse, it was us that had to get her fitted out for the funeral. An' a time we had of it. Birdie's a funny size, you know. Well, her hips took up my black skirt so it would n't reach to her shoe-tops, an' a skirt like that would n't do for a girl that was almost a widow. Certainly, we was in the devil of a fix; but I shut my jaws like this, an' I says:

“'Marthy Thomas, there 'll be folks from Mt. Tabor, from the Springs, from Diamond City, an' all around; an' Birdie Green's goin' to this funeral, an' she's goin' right.'

“Well, to make a long story short, we took Mis' Thomas's black skirt and pinned it up in front so she could walk, and let it trail in the back. Then we got her into my black waist. 'Course, it would n't meet by six inches, so we pinned a piece of black silk in, makin' a sort of a vest. Her veil dropped over it so it did n't show; but the last words I said to her before she went to the church was:

“'Birdie, no matter what your feelings are, don't sob hard or you 'll bust that vest, an' the pins 'll be flyin' all over the church.'

“When she got home after it was all over, her hands was as red as beets an' swollen up like pincushions from her tight sleeves. 'Oh, well,' she says, 'I did n't care; the pain in 'em kind o' took my mind off poor Joe.'—Yes, thank you, Mis' Landvetter, jes' lay me off a piece of the lemon-jelly layer an' some of the sunshine cake.

“Then when Slim Barker passed away with the tyfroid, three days before him an' Birdie was to been married, you all remember how it was, there was n't a black skirt in the camp, an' Mis' Barker had to keep the dye-pot boilin' the whole day before the funeral to get her an' Birdie skirts to wear.

“'Now, Birdie,' I says, 'let this be a lesson to you. Always keep a good black dress on hand. Get it of nice stuff an' make it nice, an' it will do to wear to the dance, an' if anything does come up, you'll have it.' Sure enough, when Tom Ward was drivin' that load of ore down 'Excelsior' an' the brake broke an' the horses run an' poor Tom got his head whacked against a tree, she was ready for the occasion. Now I 've told you all this to show you that I ain't so dumb but what I can see through a three-foot plank; an' it's this way. Birdie Green is jus' so scared for fear that she's goin' to hoo-doo Harris Creamer's chances that she's workin' to have the lightning strike the other man.”

“I had not thought of that,” said MacMillan seriously. “You have really presented a new view of the matter to me, Mrs. Evans.”

“It's true as gospel, Perfessor,” fervently corroborated Mrs. Thomas. “Birdie Green's a noble girl, an' we all got to rally at the polls fer her. Drat you, Nitschkan, you know I don't take sugar in my tea.”

“Pass him the cake an' coffee, Landvetter,” murmured Mrs. Evans in a low, rapid aside, emphasizing the remark with a push of her foot. “Keep him filled up. You know men.”

“A leedle more cake, Perfessor?” urged Mrs. Landvetter. “Mis' Nitschkan, you gif him anodder cup of coffee.”

MacMillan extended himself like a cat in his chair, and almost purred.

“Now, Perfessor, that you've learnt the truth of this matter,” said Mrs. Evans, speaking with emphasis, “I'm a comin' out fair ar' square, to tell you how much I want you with us. I know you 're a friend of Dave's, an' maybe you think that because Birdie's been a cuttin' around with him, p'rhaps she likes him better than Harris; but all girls is that way, if they get the chance. Truth is, Perfessor, your man's sense ain't good in a case like this. We're women, an' we know the ways of women. 'Course, Birdie ain't entirely without blame in the matter——”

“No, she ain't,” interrupted Mrs. Nitschkan. “We've talked to her more'n once; but she only shuts her mouth like a mule, an' won't say nothin'.”

“Oh, Birdie 'll come around all right,” said Mrs. Evans carelessly, darting a baleful look at her coadjutor. “But we all know, Perfessor, that you want to be right in this; an' it's doin' right to vote fer Harris. He's Birdie's last chance; for Dave don't mean nothin' serious, an' anyway, we got the weddin' cards all printed, an' that's jus' as bindin' as if Birdie had taken her oaths before the altar. The day's set two days after election, an' we're goin' to send the cards out two days before. Now, you will vote for Harris, won't you Perfessor?”

MacMillan smiled. “I could n't refuse my vote to a lady,” he said chivalrously, “the only question is, which lady?” with an enigmatic smile.

“Don't you worry over that,” said Mrs. Nitschkan, slapping him heartily on the back, “Please one, an' you please all of us.”

But as the days went on, in spite of the efforts of the machine, the delicate barometer of public sentiment proved fluctuating and uncertain. Nevertheless, even if Creamer's supporters were becoming a little less confident of the results of the approaching election, the camp, in the main, was enjoying to the full a situation which daily became more complicated.

Birdie, for certain feminine reasons best known to herself, persisted in openly and flagrantly accepting Bascum's attentions; and Creamer, observing that the hints, admonitions, and remonstrances that he dared venture in the present delicate state of his affairs, had fallen upon stony ground, had apparently accepted the situation.

By this very attitude, he lost prestige. “If Harris don't like Dave Bascum setting around at Birdie Green's every night, why don't he kick him out. 'Course, Birdie's tryin' to throw the hoo-doo on poor Dave, but it does seem small of Harris to let another man be the sacrifice,” was the universal masculine comment.

Thus they reasoned, not realizing Harris's inward dread of his rival, and his fear of Birdie openly stating a preference for Bascum before the important day.

“I don't care so much after I'm 'lected,” he said to himself. “The way Birdie's treated me, Dave Bascum can have her and welcome; but I ain't a goin' to let him beat me all around.”

As if to add force to his fears, a few days before election it was rumored that Bascum's attentions were not merely for the devilment of Creamer; but that he had succumbed to Birdie's attractions and was pursuing his suit with ardor.

As this report gained credence, the Ladies' Aid Society knew moments of panic. “He told Sile, Dave Bascum did,” related Mrs. Evans, “that he started in to make Birdie Green a campaign issue; but he had n't no such thoughts now. All he wanted was Birdie an' he meant to have her. An' Sile's give me the devil for havin' the weddin' cards done with the campaign printin'. We never had such a political muddle as this before.”

“An' they look so nice too,” deplored Mrs. Thomas. “Mayor Harris Creamer an' Birdie Green as big as life on 'em.”

“Gosh A'Mighty! Birdie's got no right to make a scandal like this,” cried Mrs. Nitschkan emphatically. “Her duty's as plain as the nose on her face. The Bishop he says to me when he come down from the Range las' week:

“'Zenith's got a pretty little romance on hand now. It isn't often that love an' politics go hand in hand.'

“Then I passed by Mis' Creamer's this morning. She was sittin' on the front step stonin' raisins. 'What's up now?' I says. 'Oh, I'm a makin' the bride's cake,' she says. 'It 'll be the best you ever put a knife into.'

“No,” bringing her fist down on the table with a bang. “Birdie's made trouble enough in the past. I don't say it's her fault; but what I do say is that us girls has got to keep her from makin' any more. We 've talked an' we 've talked, an' it ain't done no good, an' now we 've got to make her do what's right. Them weddin' cards is not goin' to be wasted.”

But even while they held counsel as to the next move on the political chess-board, a message was brought them from MacMillan requesting their presence at his cabin that evening and urging them to bring the wedding invitations with them.

“He's goin' to help us address 'em, thank the Lord!” said Mrs. Nitschkan joyously, as in the pine-scented dusk of the early spring twilight they bent their footsteps toward the Botanist's cabin. In answer to their knock, MacMillan himself opened the door and ushered them into his far from uncheerful quarters.

A small wood fire crackled merrily on the hearth, skins covered the floor, and Navajo blankets and Indian baskets decked the walls, giving the long room an aspect of comfort which savored delightfully of the wild.

“I shall have to ask you ladies to make the tea and coffee for me,” said MacMillan pleasantly, while they divested themselves of cloaks and hoods. “I should never dare offer any of my brew, after having tasted Mrs. Landvetter's.”

Mrs. Nitschkan carefully placed a square pasteboard box on the table. “Weddin' cards,” she announced. “We thought we'd take 'em around to-morrow.”

“All addressed, are they?” asked MacMillan interestedly.

“No, only about half. I wisht you'd a seen Mis' Landvetter when she was writin' hers. She had her tongue stuck clear around in her ear.”

“Us poor women's got a lot to bear,” sighed Mrs. Thomas. “In other states, they can sit peaceful in their homes, but here we 're drug into politics.”

At this moment there was a sound without of approaching footsteps and of laughter, light, happy, woman's laughter, mingled with man's deeper mirth.

“Ladies,” said MacMillan quickly and nervously, “I hope you won't be angry; but I've a confession to make. I've asked you here this evening to be present at the marriage of Miss Birdie Green and Dave Bascum.”

There was a moment of stupefied silence—the gasps of realization—a babel of clamoring, and then the door was thrown open and there entered Birdie flushed and merry in a new gray alpaca gown, Dave in Sunday clothes, and the whiskered and brawny minister from Mt. Tabor.

Mrs. Evans, quick to act, faced them defiantly. Mrs. Nitschkan too had sprung to her feet. Mrs. Thomas had subsided into soft weeping, and Mrs. Landvetter rocked to and fro murmuring disjointedly, “You can't neffer tell.”

“Well, Birdie Green!” cried Mrs. Evans shrilly, arms defiantly akimbo, “I wonder you got the nerve to come where you are. After we 've let you help with our sewin' all these years, too. Such ungrateness! An' I 'll jus' tell you, Mr. Lunger Bot'nist, that I've heard of pizen deceit; but not like this, not like this! Did n't you promise me your vote? Did n't you, did n't you?” her voice rising to a scream.

“Oh, Mis' Evans, keep ca'm, keep ca'm,” wailed Mrs. Thomas, pulling her friend's skirt. “You 'll have one of your attackts, sure.”

“I said I could n't refuse my vote to a lady; but I never said which lady,” explained MacMillan with a smile at Birdie.

“Aw, now, Mis' Nitschkan,” placated Bascum, as that energetic lady expressed her view of the matter to him with preparatory rollings up of the sleeves.

But Birdie had her arms about her, and was weeping on her shoulder. “Oh, don't treat me so hard,” she wailed. “You ladies have always been so good to me that I could n't get married without you bein' here to see.” At her words an electric comprehension of something new in the situation seemed to communicate itself to the disaffected.

“Birdie,” said Mrs. Evans slowly and impressively, “Answer me, an' answer me true. Who else is invited? Every hobo in the camp, I s'pose?” bitterly.

“No indeed, Mrs. Evans,” interposed MacMillan hastily, “Miss Birdie would have no one but you four ladies. She said she would n't feel married without you.”

Mrs. Thomas dried her tears. “Is Caroline Barnes comin'?” suspiciously.

“No, Mrs. Thomas.”

“Nor Jane Waters?” threateningly from Mrs. Nitschkan.

“No one but yourselves.”

“I only wanted you,” sobbed Birdie.

A mollified expression stole over the faces of MacMillan's guests. Their importance had merely been added unto, not decreased; and the game was still in their hands.

With a quick recognition of this fact Mrs. Evans allowed her face to relax into a reluctant smile. “Dump them invitations into the stove, Nitschkan,” she said briefly. “They 'll think we been aimin' for this right along. We 've worked our fingers to the bone to get Birdie married an' now I guess we can turn in an' 'lect Dave.”