Hempfield. Grayson David

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СКАЧАТЬ returned to its usual condition. Fergus's smile is one of the wonders of nature.

      "What ye going to do?" asked Fergus. "Thrash the editor?"

      "No," said I, "convert him."

      Fergus slowly shook his head.

      "Ye can't," said he.

      "I've already begun," said I.

      Fergus looked me over for a moment, and smiled again, this time winding up with a snort or a cough, which started to be a laugh, but stopped away down somewhere inside of him.

      "Ye think I wrote it?"

      "Well," said I, "you look perfectly capable of it."

      I was just beginning to enjoy thoroughly this give and take of conversation, which of all sports in the world is certainly the most fascinating, when I heard steps behind me and, turning half around, saw Anthy for the first time.

      "There's the editor," said Fergus. "Ask her yourself."

      She came down the room toward me with a quick, businesslike step. She wore a little round straw hat with a plain band. She had a sprig of lilac on her coat, and looked at me directly – like a man. She had very clear blue eyes.

      I have thought of this meeting a thousand times since – in the light of all that followed – and this is literally all I saw. I was not especially impressed in any way, except perhaps with a feeling of wonder that this was the person in authority, really the editor.

      I have tried to recall every instant of that meeting, and cannot remember that I thought of her either as young or as a woman. Perhaps the excitement and amusement of my talk with Fergus served to prevent a more vivid first impression. I speak of this reaction because all my life, whenever I have met a woman – I have been much alone – I have had a curious sense of being with some one a little higher or better than I am, to whom I should bow, or to whom I should present something, or with whom I should joke. With whom I should not, after all, be quite natural! I wonder if this is at all an ordinary experience with men? I wonder if any one will understand me when I say that there has always seemed to me something not quite proper in talking to a woman directly, seriously, without reservation, as to a man? But I record it here as a curious fact that I met Anthy that morning just as I would have met a man – as one human being facing another.

      "I am the editor," she said crisply, but with good humour.

      "Well," I said, "I'm afraid I'm on a rather unusual and unbusinesslike errand."

      She did not help me.

      "Last week I read an editorial in your paper which amused – interested – me very much. It was headed 'Fudge,' The writer plainly doesn't believe either in flying machines or in Democrats."

      I heard Fergus bark behind me.

      "He's going to thrash the writer," said Fergus.

      Anthy glanced swiftly across at Fergus. It occurred to me in a flash:

      "Why, she wrote it!"

      The sudden thought of the chin whiskers I had fastened upon the imaginary writer was too much for me, and I laughed outright.

      "Well," said I, "I shall not attempt any extreme measures until I try, at least, to convert her."

      I saw now that I had said something really amusing, for Fergus barked twice behind me and Anthy broke into the liveliest laughter.

      "You don't really think I wrote it?" she inquired in the roundest astonishment, with one hand on her breast.

      "I should certainly be very well repaid for my visit," said I, "if I thought you did."

      "Won't that amuse the Captain!" she exclaimed.

      "So the Captain wrote it," I said, not knowing in the least who the Captain was. "Tell me, has he chin whiskers?"

      "Why?" asked Anthy.

      "Well, when I read that editorial," I said, beginning again to enjoy the give and take of the conversation, "I imagined the sort of man who must have written it: chin whiskers, spectacles low on his nose, very severe on all young things."

      Anthy looked at Fergus.

      "And does he by any chance" – I inquired in as serious a manner as I could command, "I mean, of course, when he is angry – kick the cat?"

      At this Fergus came down with a bang on all four legs of his chair, and we all laughed together.

      "Say," said Fergus, "I don't know who ye are, but ye're all right!"

      And that was the way I came first to the printing-office.

      CHAPTER II

      I STEP BOLDLY INTO THE STORY

      It is one of the provoking, but interesting, things about life that it will never stop a moment for admiration. No sooner do you pause to enjoy it, or philosophize over it, or poetize about it, than it is up and away, and the next time you glance around it is vanishing over the hill – with the wind in its garments and the sun in its hair. If you do not go on with life, it will go on without you. The only safe way, then, to follow a story, I mean a story in real life, is to get right into it yourself. How breathless, then, it becomes, how you long for – and yet fear – the next chapter, how you love the heroine and hate the villain, and never for an instant can you tell how it is all coming out!

      I should be tempted to say that I arrived at the printing-office at a psychological moment if it were not for the fact, as I soon learned, that most of the moments for several months past had been equally psychological. Indeed, before I had fairly got acquainted with the printing-office, and with Fergus and Anthy, and was expecting momentarily to hear the Captain coming in, crying "Fudge," the story moved on, as majestically as if I hadn't appeared at all.

      In a story or a play you can set your stage for your crises, and lead up to the entrance of your villain with appropriate literary flourishes. You can artfully let us know beforehand that it is really a villain who is about to intrude upon your paradise, and dim the voice of the canary and frighten the cat. But in real life, events and crises have a disconcerting way of backing into your narrative before ever you are ready for them, and at the most awkward and inconvenient times.

      It was thus that Bucky Penrose came into the printing-office that spring morning. He was struggling with a small but weighty box filled with literature in metal. When he had got it well inside, he deposited it, not at all gently, on a stool, took off his cap, and wiped his forehead.

      "Whew, it's hot this morning!" said Bucky.

      Now, I dislike to speak of Bucky as a villain, for of all the people in Hempfield Bucky certainly least looks the part. He has towy hair and mild, light-blue eyes. He wears a visor cap and carries a long, flat book which he flaps open for you to sign. He is the expressman.

      I could see, however, from the look in Anthy's face that Bucky was really a hardened villain. And Bucky himself seemed to know it and feel it, for it was in an apologetic voice that he said:

      "The plates is a dollar this week, Miss Doane, and the insides is seven and a half, C. O. D."

      Anthy's hand went to the little leather bag she carried.

      "I – I didn't bring up the СКАЧАТЬ