Later, as they sat around the board, Wrinkles said with satisfaction,"Well, the coffee's good, anyhow."
"'Tis good," said Florinda, "but it isn't made right. I'll show you how,Penny. You first----"
"Oh, dry up, Splutter," said Grief. "Here, take an egg."
"I don't like eggs," said Florinda.
"Take an egg," said the three hosts menacingly.
"I tell you I don't like eggs."
"Take--an--egg!" they said again.
"Oh, well," said Florinda, "I'll take one, then; but you needn't actlike such a set of dudes--and, oh, maybe you didn't have much lunch. Ihad such a daisy lunch! Up at Pontiac's studio. He's got a lovelystudio."
The three looked to be oppressed. Grief said sullenly, "I saw some ofhis things over in Stencil's gallery, and they're rotten."
"Yes--rotten," said Pennoyer.
"Rotten," said Grief.
"Oh, well," retorted Florinda, "if a man has a swell studio anddresses--oh, sort of like a Willie, you know, you fellows sit here likeowls in a cave and say rotten--rotten--rotten. You're away off.Pontiac's landscapes----"
"Landscapes be blowed! Put any of his work alongside of Billie Hawker'sand see how it looks."
"Oh, well, Billie Hawker's," said Florinda. "Oh, well."
At the mention of Hawker's name they had all turned to scan her face.
CHAPTER XX.
"He wrote that he was coming home this week," said Pennoyer.
"Did he?" asked Florinda indifferently.
"Yes. Aren't you glad?"
They were still watching her face.
"Yes, of course I'm glad. Why shouldn't I be glad?" cried the girl withdefiance.
They grinned.
"Oh, certainly. Billie Hawker is a good fellow, Splutter. You have aparticular right to be glad."
"You people make me tired," Florinda retorted. "Billie Hawker doesn'tgive a rap about me, and he never tried to make out that he did."
"No," said Grief. "But that isn't saying that you don't care a rap aboutBillie Hawker. Ah, Florinda!"
It seemed that the girl's throat suffered a slight contraction. "Well,and what if I do?" she demanded finally.
"Have a cigarette?" answered Grief.
Florinda took a cigarette, lit it, and, perching herself on a divan,which was secretly a coal box, she smoked fiercely.
"What if I do?" she again demanded. "It's better than liking one of youdubs, anyhow."
"Oh, Splutter, you poor little outspoken kid!" said Wrinkle in a sadvoice.
Grief searched among the pipes until he found the best one. "Yes,Splutter, don't you know that when you are so frank you defy every lawof your sex, and wild eyes will take your trail?"
"Oh, you talk through your hat," replied Florinda. "Billie don't carewhether I like him or whether I don't. And if he should hear me now, hewouldn't be glad or give a hang, either way. I know that." The girlpaused and looked at the row of plaster casts. "Still, you needn't bethrowing it at me all the time."
"We didn't," said Wrinkles indignantly. "You threw it at yourself."
"Well," continued Florinda, "it's better than liking one of you dubs,anyhow. He makes money and----"
"There," said Grief, "now you've hit it! Bedad, you've reached a pointin eulogy where if you move again you will have to go backward."
"Of course I don't care anything about a fellow's having money----"
"No, indeed you don't, Splutter," said Pennoyer.
"But then, you know what I mean. A fellow isn't a man and doesn't standup straight unless he has some money. And Billie Hawker makes enough sothat you feel that nobody could walk over him, don't you know? And thereisn't anything jay about him, either. He's a thoroughbred, don't youknow?"
After reflection, Pennoyer said, "It's pretty hard on the rest of us,Splutter."
"Well, of course I like him, but--but----"
"What?" said Pennoyer.
"I don't know," said Florinda.
Purple Sanderson lived in this room, but he usually dined out. At acertain time in his life, before he came to be a great artist, he hadlearned the gas-fitter's trade, and when his opinions were not identicalwith the opinions of the art managers of the greater number of New Yorkpublications he went to see a friend who was a plumber, and the opinionsof this man he was thereafter said to respect. He frequented a very neatrestaurant on Twenty-third Street. It was known that on Saturday nightsWrinkles, Grief, and Pennoyer frequently quarreled with him.
As Florinda ceased speaking Purple entered. "Hello, there, Splutter!" Ashe was neatly hanging up his coat, he said to the others, "Well, therent will be due in four days."
"Will it?" asked Pennoyer, astounded.
"Certainly it will," responded Purple, with the air of a superiorfinancial man.
"My soul!" said Wrinkles.
"Oh, shut up, Purple!" said Grief. "You make me weary, coming aroundhere with your chin about rent. I was just getting happy."
"Well, how are we going to pay it? That's the point," said Sanderson.
Wrinkles sank deeper in his chair and played despondently on hisguitar. Grief cast a look of rage at Sanderson, and then stared at thewall. Pennoyer said, "Well, we might borrow it from Billie Hawker."
Florinda laughed then.
"Oh," continued Pennoyer hastily, "if those Amazement people pay me whenthey said they would I'll have the money."
"So you will," said Grief. "You will have money to burn. Did theAmazement people ever pay you when they said they would? You arewonderfully important all of a sudden, it seems to me. You talk like anartist."
Wrinkles, too, smiled at Pennoyer. "The Eminent Magazine people wantedPenny to hire models and make a try for them, too. It would only costhim a stack of blues. By the time he has invested all his money hehasn't got, and the rent is three weeks overdue, he will be able to tellthe landlord to wait seven months until the Monday morning after the dayof publication. Go ahead, Penny."
After a period of silence, Sanderson, in an obstinate manner, said,"Well, what's to be done? The rent has got to be paid."
Wrinkles played more sad music. Grief frowned deeper. Pennoyer wasevidently searching his mind for a plan.
Florinda took the cigarette from between her lips that she might grinwith greater freedom.
"We might throw Purple out," said Grief, with an inspired air. "Thatwould stop all this discussion."
"You!" said Sanderson furiously. "You can't keep serious a minute. Ifyou didn't have us to take care of you, you wouldn't even know when theythrew you out into the street."
"Wouldn't I?" said Grief.
"Well, look here," interposed Florinda, "I'm going home unless you canbe more interesting. I am dead sorry about the rent, but I can't helpit, and----"
"Here! Sit down! Hold on, Splutter!" they shouted. Grief turned toSanderson: "Purple, you shut up!"
Florinda curled again on the divan and lit another cigarette. The talkwaged about the names of other and more successful painters, whose workthey usually pronounced "rotten."
CHAPTER XXI.
Pennoyer, coming home one morning with two gigantic cakes to accompanythe coffee at the breakfast in the den, saw a young man bounce from ahorse car. He gave a shout. "Hello, there, Billie! Hello!"
"Hello, Penny!" said Hawker. "What are you doing out so early?" It wassomewhat after nine o'clock.
"Out to get breakfast," said Pennoyer, waving the cakes. "Have a goodtime, old man?"
"Great."
"Do much work?"
"No. Not so much. How are all the people?"
"Oh, pretty good. Come in and see us eat breakfast," said Pennoyer,throwing open the door of the den. Wrinkles, in his shirt, was makingcoffee. Grief sat in a chair trying to loosen the grasp of sleep. "Why,Billie Hawker, b'ginger!" they cried.
"How's the wolf, boys? At the door yet?"
"'At the door yet?' He's halfway up the back stairs, and coming fast. Heand the landlord will be here to-morrow. 'Mr. Landlord, allow me topresent Mr. F. Wolf, of Hu
nger, N. J. Mr. Wolf--Mr. Landlord.'"
"Bad as that?" said Hawker.
"You bet it is! Easy Street is somewhere in heaven, for all we know.Have some breakfast?--coffee and cake, I mean."
"No, thanks, boys. Had breakfast."
Wrinkles added to the shirt, Grief aroused himself, and Pennoyer broughtthe coffee. Cheerfully throwing some drawings from the table to thefloor, they thus made room for the breakfast, and grouped themselveswith beaming smiles at the board.
"Well, Billie, come back to the old gang again, eh? How did the countryseem? Do much work?"
"Not very much. A few things. How's everybody?"
"Splutter was in last night. Looking out of sight. Seemed glad to hearthat you were coming back soon."
"Did she? Penny, did anybody call wanting me to do a ten-thousand-dollarportrait for them?"
"No. That frame-maker, though, was here with a bill. I told him----"
Afterward Hawker crossed the corridor and threw open the door of his ownlarge studio. The great skylight, far above his head, shed its clearrays upon a scene which appeared to indicate that some one had veryrecently ceased work here and started for the country. A distant closetdoor was open, and the interior showed the effects of a sudden pillage.
There was an unfinished "Girl in Apple Orchard" upon the tall Dutcheasel, and sketches and studies were thick upon the floor. Hawker took apipe and filled it from his friend the tan and gold jar. He cast himselfinto a chair and, taking an envelope from his pocket, emptied twoviolets from it to the palm of his hand and stared long at them. Uponthe walls of the studio various labours of his life, in heavy giltframes, contemplated him and the violets.
At last Pennoyer burst impetuously in upon him. "Hi, Billie! come overand---- What's the matter?"
Hawker had hastily placed the violets in the envelope and hurried it tohis pocket. "Nothing," he answered.
"Why, I thought--" said Pennoyer, "I thought you looked rather rattled.Didn't you have--I thought I saw something in your hand."
"Nothing, I tell you!" cried Hawker.
"Er--oh, I beg your pardon," said Pennoyer. "Why, I was going to tellyou that Splutter is over in our place, and she wants to see you."
"Wants to see me? What for?" demanded Hawker. "Why don't she come overhere, then?"
"I'm sure I don't know," replied Pennoyer. "She sent me to call you."
"Well, do you think I'm going to---- Oh, well, I suppose she wants to beunpleasant, and knows she loses a certain mental position if she comesover here, but if she meets me in your place she can be as infernallydisagreeable as she---- That's it, I'll bet."
When they entered the den Florinda was gazing from the window. Her backwas toward the door.
At last she turned to them, holding herself very straight. "Well, BillieHawker," she said grimly, "you don't seem very glad to see a fellow."
"Why, heavens, did you think I was going to turn somersaults in theair?"
"Well, you didn't come out when you heard me pass your door," saidFlorinda, with gloomy resentment.
Hawker appeared to be ruffled and vexed. "Oh, great Scott!" he said,making a gesture of despair.
Florinda returned to the window. In the ensuing conversation she took nopart, save when there was an opportunity to harry some speech ofHawker's, which she did in short contemptuous sentences. Hawker made noreply save to glare in her direction. At last he said, "Well, I must goover and do some work." Florinda did not turn from the window. "Well,so-long, boys," said Hawker, "I'll see you later."
As the door slammed Pennoyer apologetically said, "Billie is a trifleoff his feed this morning."
"What about?" asked Grief.
"I don't know; but when I went to call him he was sitting deep in hischair staring at some----" He looked at Florinda and became silent.
"Staring at what?" asked Florinda, turning then from the window.
Pennoyer seemed embarrassed. "Why, I don't know--nothing, I guess--Icouldn't see very well. I was only fooling."
Florinda scanned his face suspiciously. "Staring at what?" she demandedimperatively.
"Nothing, I tell you!" shouted Pennoyer.
Florinda looked at him, and wavered and debated. Presently she said,softly: "Ah, go on, Penny. Tell me."
"It wasn't anything at all, I say!" cried Pennoyer stoutly. "I was onlygiving you a jolly. Sit down, Splutter, and hit a cigarette."
She obeyed, but she continued to cast the dubious eye at Pennoyer. Onceshe said to him privately: "Go on, Penny, tell me. I know it wassomething from the way you are acting."
"Oh, let up, Splutter, for heaven's sake!"
"Tell me," beseeched Florinda.
"No."
"Tell me."
"No."
"Pl-e-a-se tell me."
"No."
"Oh, go on."
"No."
"Ah, what makes you so mean, Penny? You know I'd tell you, if it was theother way about."
"But it's none of my business, Splutter. I can't tell you somethingwhich is Billie Hawker's private affair. If I did I would be a chump."
"But I'll never say you told me. Go on."
"No."
"Pl-e-a-se tell me."
"No."
CHAPTER XXII.
When Florinda had gone, Grief said, "Well, what was it?" Wrinkles lookedcuriously from his drawing-board.
Pennoyer lit his pipe and held it at the side of his mouth in the mannerof a deliberate man. At last he said, "It was two violets."
"You don't say!" ejaculated Wrinkles.
"Well, I'm hanged!" cried Grief. "Holding them in his hand and mopingover them, eh?"
"Yes," responded Pennoyer. "Rather that way."
"Well, I'm hanged!" said both Grief and Wrinkles. They grinned in apleased, urchin-like manner. "Say, who do you suppose she is? Somebodyhe met this summer, no doubt. Would you ever think old Billie would getinto that sort of a thing? Well, I'll be gol-durned!"
Ultimately Wrinkles said, "Well, it's his own business." This was spokenin a tone of duty.
"Of course it's his own business," retorted Grief. "But who would everthink----" Again they grinned.
When Hawker entered the den some minutes later he might have noticedsomething unusual in the general demeanour. "Say, Grief, will you loanme your---- What's up?" he asked.
For answer they grinned at each other, and then grinned at him.
"You look like a lot of Chessy cats," he told them.
They grinned on.
Apparently feeling unable to deal with these phenomena, he went at lastto the door. "Well, this is a fine exhibition," he said, standing withhis hand on the knob and regarding them. "Won election bets? Some goodold auntie just died? Found something new to pawn? No? Well, I can'tstand this. You resemble those fish they discover at deep sea.Good-bye!"
As he opened the door they cried out: "Hold on, Billie! Billie, lookhere! Say, who is she?"
"What?"
"Who is she?"
"Who is who?"
They laughed and nodded. "Why, you know. She. Don't you understand?She."
"You talk like a lot of crazy men," said Hawker. "I don't know what youmean."
"Oh, you don't, eh? You don't? Oh, no! How about those violets you weremoping over this morning? Eh, old man! Oh, no, you don't know what wemean! Oh, no! How about those violets, eh? How about 'em?"
Hawker, with flushed and wrathful face, looked at Pennoyer. "Penny----"But Grief and Wrinkles roared an interruption. "Oh, ho, Mr. Hawker! soit's true, is it? It's true. You are a nice bird, you are. Well, you oldrascal! Durn your picture!"
Hawker, menacing them once with his eyes, went away. They sat cackling.
At noon, when he met Wrinkles in the corridor, he said: "Hey, Wrinkles,come here for a minute, will you? Say, old man, I--I----"
"What?" said Wrinkles.
"Well, you know, I--I--of course, every man is likely to make anaccursed idiot of himself once in a while, and I----"
"And you what?" asked Wrinkles.
"Well, we are a kind of a band of hoodlums, you know, and I'm justenough idiot to feel that I don't care to hear--don't care tohear--well, her name used, you know."
"Bless your heart," replied Wrinkles, "we haven't used her name. Wedon't know her name. How could we use it?"
"Well, I know," said Hawker. "But you understand what I mean, Wrinkles."
"Yes, I understand what you mean," said Wrinkles, with dignity. "I don'tsuppose you are any worse of a stuff than common. Still, I didn't knowthat we were such outlaws."
"Of course, I have overdone the thing," responded Hawker hastily."But--you ought to understand how I mean it, Wrinkles."
After Wrinkles had thought for a time, he said: "Well, I guess I do.All right. That goes."
Upon entering the den, Wrinkles said, "You fellows have got to quitguying Billie, do you hear?"
"We?" cried Grief. "We've got to quit? What do you do?"
"Well, I quit too."
Pennoyer said: "Ah, ha! Billie has been jumping on you."
"No, he didn't," maintained Wrinkles; "but he let me know it was--well,rather a--rather a--sacred subject." Wrinkles blushed when the otherssnickered.
In the afternoon, as Hawker was going slowly down the stairs, he wasalmost impaled upon the feather of a hat which, upon the head of a litheand rather slight girl, charged up at him through the gloom.
The Third Violet Page 7