The Firing Line. Chambers Robert William

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СКАЧАТЬ being a naughty boy coming to you—including a few Circes and grand slams—"

      "He's met his Circe," cut in Malcourt, leaning languidly over the rail; "she's wearing a scarlet handkerchief this season—"

      Portlaw, laughing fatly, nodded. "Louis discovered your Circe through the glasses climbing into your boat—"

      "What a busy little beast you are, Malcourt," observed Hamil, annoyed, glancing down at the small boat alongside.

      "'Beast' is good! You mean the mere sight of her transformed Louis into the classic shote," added Portlaw, laughing louder as Hamil, still smiling through his annoyance, went over the side. And a moment later the gig shot away into the star-set darkness.

      From the bridge Wayward wearily watched it through his night glasses; Malcourt, slim and graceful, sat on the rail and looked out into the Southern dusk, an unlighted cigarette between his lips.

      "That kills our four at Bridge," grumbled Portlaw, leaning heavily beside him. "We'll have to play Klondike and Preference now, or call in the ship's cat.... Hello, is that you, Jim?" as Wayward came aft, limping a trifle as he did at certain times.

      "That girl had a good figure—through the glasses. I couldn't make out her face; it was probably the limit; combinations are rare," mused Malcourt. "And then—the fog came! It was like one of those low-down classical tricks of Jupiter when caught philandering."

      Portlaw laughed till his bulky body shook. "The Olympian fog was wasted," he said; "John Garret Hamil 3d still preserves his nursery illusions."

      "He's lucky," remarked Wayward, staring into the gloom.

      "But not fortunate," added Malcourt; "there's a difference between luck and fortune. Read the French classics."

      Wayward growled; Malcourt, who always took a malicious amusement in stirring him up, grinned at him sideways.

      "No man is fit for decent society until he's lost all his illusions," he said, "particularly concerning women."

      "Some of us have been fools enough to lose our illusions," retorted Wayward sharply, "but you never had any, Malcourt; and that's no compliment from me to you."

      Portlaw chuckled. "We never lose illusions; we mislay 'em," he suggested; "and then we are pretty careful to mislay only that particular illusion which inconveniences us." He jerked his heavy head in Malcourt's direction. "Nobody clings more frantically to illusions than your unbaked cynic; Louis, you're not nearly such a devil of a fellow as you imagine you are."

      Malcourt smiled easily and looked out over the waves.

      "Cynicism is old-fashioned," he said; "dogma is up to date. Credo! I believe in a personal devil, virtuous maidens in bowers, and rosewood furniture. As for illusions I cherish as many as you do!" He turned with subtle impudence to Wayward. "And the world is littered with the shattered fragments."

      "It's littered with pups, too," observed Wayward, turning on his heel. And he walked away, limping, his white mess jacket a pale spot in the gloom.

      Malcourt looked after him; an edge of teeth glimmering beneath his full upper lip.

      "It might be more logical if he'd cut out his alcohol before he starts in as a gouty marine missionary," he observed. "Last night he sat there looking like a superannuated cavalry colonel in spectacles, neuritis twitching his entire left side, unable to light his own cigar; and there he sat and rambled on and on about innate purity and American womanhood."

      He turned abruptly as a steward stepped up bearing a decanter and tray of glasses.

      Portlaw helped himself, grumbling under his breath that he meant to cut out this sort of thing and set Wayward an example.

      Malcourt lifted his glass gaily:

      "Our wives and sweethearts; may they never meet!"

      They set back their empty glasses; Portlaw started to move away, still muttering about the folly of self-indulgence; but the other detained him.

      "Wayward took it out of me in 'Preference' this morning while Garry was out courting. I'd better liquidate to-night, hadn't I, Billy?"

      "Certainly," said Portlaw.

      The other shook his head. "I'll get it all back at Miami, of course. In the mean time—if you don't mind letting me have enough to square things—"

      Portlaw hesitated, balancing his bulk uneasily first on one foot, then the other.

      "I don't mind; no; only—"

      "Only what?" asked Malcourt. "I told you I couldn't afford to play cards on this trip, but you insisted."

      "Certainly, certainly! I expected to consider you as—as—"

      "I'm your general manager and I'm ready at all times to earn my salary. If you think it best to take me away from the estate for a junketing trip and make me play cards you can do it of course; but if you think I'm here to throw my money overboard I'm going back to-morrow!"

      "Nonsense," said Portlaw; "you're not going back. There's nothing doing in winter up there that requires your personal attention—"

      "It's a bad winter for the deer—I ought to be there now—"

      "Well, can't Blake and O'Connor attend to that?"

      "Yes, I suppose they can. But I'm not going to waste the winter and my salary in the semi-tropics just because you want me to—"

      "O Lord!" said Portlaw, "what are you kicking about? Have I ever—"

      "You force me to be plain-spoken; you never seem to understand that if you insist on my playing the wealthy do-nothing that you've got to keep me going. And I tell you frankly, Billy, I'm tired of it."

      "Oh, don't flatten your ears and show your teeth," protested Portlaw amiably. "I only supposed you had enough—with such a salary—to give yourself a little rope on a trip like this, considering you've nobody but yourself to look out for, and that I do that and pay you heavily for the privilege"—his voice had become a mumble—"and all you do is to take vacations in New York or sit on a horse and watch an army of men plant trout and pheasants, and cut out ripe timber—O hell!"

      "What did you say?"

      Portlaw became good-humouredly matter of fact: "I said 'hell,' Louis—which meant, 'what's the use of squabbling.' It also means that you are going to have what you require as a matter of course; so come on down to my state-room and let us figure it up before Jim Wayward begins to turn restless and limp toward the card-room."

      As they turned and strolled forward, Malcourt nudged him:

      "Look at the fireworks over Lake Worth," he said; "probably Palm Beach's welcome to her new and beardless prophet."

      "It's one of their cheap Venetian fêtes," muttered Portlaw. "I know 'em; they're rather amusing. If we weren't sailing in an hour we'd go. No doubt Hamil's in it already; probably Cardross put him next to a bunch of dreams and he's right in it at this very moment."

      "With the girl in the red handkerchief," added Malcourt. "I wish we had time."

      "I believe I've seen that girl somewhere," mused Portlaw.

      "Perhaps you have; there СКАЧАТЬ