Somehow staggered, I managed to wave my hand comprehensively.
“Never mind. Just say that I’ll be down in two minutes.”
He grinned. “I reckon I’d better hustle, or you’ll beat me down, boss.”
CHAPTER XXI
SHE PROPOSES
She was still in her riding habit when I found her alone in the parlour of the Titus suite.
I give you my word my heart almost stopped beating. I’ve never seen any one so lovely as she was at that moment. Never, I repeat. Her hair, blown by the kind November winds, strayed—but no! I cannot begin to define the loveliness of her. There was a warm, rich glow in her cheeks and a light in her eyes that actually bewildered me, and more than that I am not competent to utter.
“You have come at last,” she said, and her voice sounded very far off; although I was lifting her ungloved hand to my lips. She clenched my fingers tightly, I remember that; and also that my hand shook violently and that my face felt pale.
I think I said that I had come at last. She took my other hand in hers and drawing dangerously close to me said:
“I do not expect to be married for at least a year, John.”
“I—I congratulate you,” I stammered foolishly.
“I have a feeling that it isn’t decent for one to marry inside of two years after one has been divorced.”
“How is Rosemary?” I murmured.
“You are in love with me, aren’t you, John, dear?”
“Goo—good heaven!” I gasped.
“I know you are. That’s why I am so sure of myself. Is it asking too much of you to marry me in a year from—”
I haven’t the faintest notion how long afterward it was that I asked her what was to become of that poor, unlucky devil, Lord Amberdale.
“He isn’t a devil. He’s a dear, and he is going to marry a bred-in-the-bone countess next January. You will like him, because he is every bit as much in love with his real countess are you are with a sham one. He is a bird of your feather. And now don’t you want to come with me to see Rosemary?”
“Rosemary,” I murmured, as in a dream—a luxurious lotus-born dream.
She took my arm and advanced with me into a room adjoining the parlour. As we passed through the door, she suddenly squeezed my arm very tightly and laid her head against my shoulder.
We were in a small sitting-room, confronting Jasper Titus, his wife and his tiny grand-daughter, who was ready for bed.
“You won’t have to worry about me any longer, daddy dear,” said Aline, her voice suddenly breaking.
“Well, I’ll be—well, well, well!” cried my late victim of the links. “Is this the way the wind blows?”
I was perfectly dumb. My face was scarlet. My dazzled eyes saw nothing but the fine, aristocratic features of Aline’s mother. She was leaning slightly forward in her chair, and a slow but unmistakable joyous smile was creeping into her face.
“Aline!” she cried, and Aline went to her.
Jasper Titus led Rosemary up to me.
“Kiss the gentleman, kiddie,” said he huskily, lifting the little one up to me.
She gave a sudden shriek of recognition, and I took her in my arms.
“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed I, without the slightest idea of what I was doing or why I did it. Sometimes I wonder if there has ever been any insanity in our family. I know there have been fools, for I have my Uncle Rilas’s word for it.
Mr. Titus picked up the newspaper he had been reading.
“Listen to this, Allie. It will interest you. It says here that our friend Tarnowsy is going to marry that fool of a Cincinnati girl we were talking about the other day. I know her father, but I’ve never met her mother. Old Bob Thackery has got millions but he’s only got one daughter. What a blamed shame!”
* * * *
It must be perfectly obvious to you, kind reader, that I am going to marry Aline Tarnowsy, in spite of all my professed opposition to marrying a divorcee. I argued the whole matter out with myself, but not until after I was irrevocably committed. She says she needs me. Well, isn’t that enough? In fact, I am now trying my best to get her to shorten the probationary period. She has taken off three months, God bless her, but I still hope for a further and more generous reduction—for good behaviour!
ANDERSON CROW, DETECTIVE (1918)
This collection of humorous western stories dates from 1918, but the individual stories were published prior to that date in magazines. A novel with the same characters, The Daughter of Anderson Crow, follows.
Included in this series are:
A Night to Be Remembered
“You Are Invited to Be Present”
The Perfect End of a Day
The Best Man Wins!
Vicious Lucius
The Veiled Lady and the Shadow
The Astonishing Acts of Anna
No Questions Answered
Shades of the Garden of Eden!
“Jake Miller Hangs Himself”
A NIGHT TO BE REMEMBERED
Two events of great importance took place in Tinkletown on the night of May 6, 1918. The first, occurring at half-past ten o’clock, was of sufficient consequence to rouse the entire population out of bed—thereby creating a situation, almost unique, which allowed every one in town to participate in all the thrills of the second. When the history of Tinkletown is written,—and it is said to be well under way at the hands of that estimable authoress, Miss Sue Becker, some fifty years a resident of the town and the great-granddaughter of one of its founders,—when this history is written, the night of May 6, 1918, will assert itself with something of the same insistence that causes the world to refresh its memory occasionally by looking into the encyclopedia to determine the exact date of the Fall of the Bastile. The fire-bell atop the town hall heralded the first event, and two small boys gave notice of the second.
Smock’s grain-elevator, on the outskirts of the town, was in flames, and with a high wind blowing from the west, the Congregational and Baptist churches, the high school, Pratt’s photograph gallery and the two motion-picture houses were threatened with destruction. As Anderson Crow, now deputy marshal of the town, declared the instant he arrived at the scene of the conflagration, nothing but the most heroic and indefatigable efforts on the part of the volunteer fire-department could save the town—only he put it in this way: “We’ll have another Chicago fire here, sure as you’re born, unless it rains or the wind changes mighty all-fired sudden; so we got to fight hard, boys.”
Mr. Crow, also deputy superintendent of the fire-department, was late in getting to the engine-house back of the town hall—so late that the hand-engine and hose-reel, manned by volunteers who had waited as long as advisable, were belabouring the fire with water some time before he reached the engine-house. This irritated Mr. Crow considerably. He was out of breath when he got to the elevator, or some one would have heard from him. Another cause of annoyance was the fact that his rubber coat and helmet went with the hose-reel and were by this time adorning the person of an energetic fire-fighter who had no official right to them. After a diligent search Mr. Crow located his regalia and commanded the wearer, one Patrick Murphy, to hand ’em over at once. What Patrick Murphy, a recent arrival at Tinkletown, said in response to this demand was lost in the roar of the flames; so Anderson put his hand to his ear and shouted:
“What say?”
Patrick repeated his remark with great vigour, and Mr. Crow, apparently catching no more than the final word in the sentence, moved hastily away, but not before agreeing with Mr. Murphy that it was as hot as the place he mentioned.
Ed Higgins, the feed-store man, was in charge of the fire-fighters, who were industriously throwing a single stream of water from the fire-cistern into the vast and towering conflagration. It was like tossing a pint of water into the Atlantic Ocean.
“Got her under control?” roared Anderson, bristling up to Ed.
“Sure!” shouted Ed. “She’s workin’ beautiful. Just look at that stream. Yo
u—”
“I mean the fire,” bellowed Anderson.
“Oh, I thought you meant the engine. I don’t think we’ll get the fire under contral till the derned warehouse is burned down. Gee whiz, Chief, where you been? We waited as long as we could for you, and then—”
“Don’t blame me,” was Anderson’s answer. “I’d ha’ been the first man at the engine-house if I hadn’t waited nigh onto half an hour trying to get the chief of the fire-department out of bed and dressed. I argued—”
“What’s the matter with you? Ain’t you chief of the fire-department? Are you crazy or what?”
“Ain’t you got any brains, Ed Higgins? My wife’s been chief ever since she was elected marshal last month, an’ you know it. That’s what we get fer lettin’ the women vote an’ have a hand in the affairs of the nation. She just wouldn’t get up—so I had to come off without her. Where’s my trumpet? We got to get this fire under control, or the whole town will go. Gosh, if it’d only rain! Looked a little like rain this evenin’—an’ this wind may be bringin’ up a storm or—”
“Here’s your trumpet, Mr. Crow,” screeched a small boy, bursting through the crowd.
Half of the inhabitants of Tinkletown stood outside of the rim of heat and watched the fire, while the other half, in all stages of deshabille, remained in their front yards training the garden hose on the roofs and sides of their houses and yelling to every speeding passer-by to telephone to the commissioner of water-works to turn on more pressure. Among his other offices, Mr. Crow was commissioner of water-works, having held over in that office because the board of selectmen forgot to appoint any one else in his place after the last election. And while a great many citizens carried the complaint of the garden-hose handlers to the commissioner, it is doubtful if he heard them above the combined sound of his own voice and the roar of the flames.
Possessed of his trumpet, the redoubtable Mr. Crow took his stand beside the old hand-pumping “fire-engine” and gave orders right and left in a valiant but thoroughly cracked voice.
“Now, we’ll git her out,” panted Alf Reesling, the town drunkard, speaking to Father Maloney, the Catholic priest, who was taking a turn with him at the pumping apparatus. “Ed.’s all right, but it takes Anderson to handle a fire as she ought to be handled.”
Father Maloney, perspiring copiously and breathing with great difficulty, grunted without conviction.
“Leetle more elbow-grease there, men!” shouted Anderson, directing his command to the futile pumpers. “We got to get water up to that second-story winder. More steam, boys—more steam!”
“Aw, what’s the use?” growled Bill Jackson, letting go of the pump to wipe his dripping forehead. “We couldn’t put her out with Niagary Falls in flood-time.”
“Bring your hose over here, men—lively, now!” called out the leader. “Every second counts. Lively! Git out o’ the way, Purt Throcker! Consarn you fool boys! Can’t you keep back where you belong? Right over here, men! That’s the ticket! Now, shoot her into that winder. Hey! One of you boys bust in that winder glass with a rock. All of you! See if you c’n hit her!”
A fusillade of stones left the hands of a score of small boys and clattered against the walls of the doomed warehouse, some of them coming as near as ten feet to the objective, two of them being so wide of the mark that simultaneous ejaculations of surprise and pain issued from the lips of Miss Spratt and Professor Smith, both of the high school.
The heat was intense, blistering. Reluctantly the crowd, awed and fascinated by the greatest blaze it had ever seen,—not even excepting the burning of Eliphalet Loop’s straw-ricks in 1897,—edged farther and farther away, pursued by the relentless heat-waves. The fire-fighters withdrew in good order, obeying the instinct of self-preservation somewhat in advance of the command of their superior, who, indeed, had anticipated such a manoeuvre by taking a position from which he could lead the retreat. By the time the fire was at its height, “lighting the way clear to heaven,” according to Miss Sue Becker, who had to borrow Marshal Crow’s pencil and a piece of paper from Mort Fryback so that she could jot down the beautiful thought before it perished in the “turmoil of frightfulness!”
“More elbow-grease, men!” roared Anderson, “She’ll get ahead of us if we let up for a second! Pump! Pump!”
And pump they did, notwithstanding the fact that the stream of water from the nozzle in the hands of Ed Higgins and Petey Cicotte was now falling short of the building by some twenty or thirty feet.
“Serves old man Smock right!” declared Anderson in wrath, addressing the town clerk and two selectmen who by virtue of office retained advantageous positions in the front rank of spectators “If he’d done as I told him an’ paid fer havin’ water-mains extended as fer out as his warehouse, we could have saved it fer him. It looks to me now as if she’s bound to go. Where’s Harry?”
Harry Squires, the reporter for The Banner, notebook in hand, came up at that instant.
“Looks pretty serious, doesn’t it, Chief?” he remarked.
“The fire-company deserves all the credit, Harry,” said Anderson magnanimously. “I want you to put it in the paper, just that way, as comin’ from me. If it hadn’t been for the loyal, heroic efforts of the finest fire-department Tinkletown has ever had, the—Hey! Pull that hose back here, you derned fools! Do you want to get it scorched an’ ruined so’s it won’t be fit fer anything agin? Fetch that engine over here across the road too! Do you hear me?” Turning again to the reporter, he resumed: “Yes sir, if it hadn’t been fer them boys, there wouldn’t have been a blessed thing saved, Harry.”
Harry Squires squinted narrowly. “I can’t say that anything has been saved, Chief. Just mention something, please.”
Anderson looked at him in amazement. “Why, ain’t you got any eyes? Hain’t they saved the engine and every foot of hose the town owns?”
“They could have saved that much by staying at home in bed,” said Mr. Squires dryly. “I’ve just seen Mr. Smock. He says there were fifty thousand bushels of wheat in the bins, waiting for cars to take it down to New York. Every bushel of it was going abroad for the Allies. Does that put any sort of an idea into your nut, Anderson?”
“What?”
“Into your bean, I should say. Or, in other words, hair-pasture.”
“He means head, Mr. Crow,” explained Miss Sue Becker.
“Well, why don’t he say head—that’s what I’d like to know.”
“Do you deduce anything from the fact that the grain was to go to the Allies, Anderson?” inquired Harry.
The harassed marshal scratched his head, but said: “Absolutely!”
“Well, what do you deduce, Mr. Hawkshaw?”
“I deduce, you derned jay, that old man Smock won’t be able to deliver it. Move back, will you? You’re right in my way, an’—”
“I suppose you know that the Germans are still fighting the Allies, don’t you? Fighting ’em here as well as over in France? Now does that help you any?”
Mr. Crow’s jaw fell—but only for a second. He tightened it up almost immediately and with commendable dignity.
“My sakes alive, Harry Squires, you don’t suppose I’m tellin’ my real suspicions to any newspaper reporter, do you? How do I know you ain’t a spy? Still, dog-gone you, if it will set your mind at rest, I’ll say this much: I have positive proof that Smock’s warehouse was set on fire by agents of the German gover’ment. That’s one of the reasons I was a little late in gettin’ to the fire. Now, don’t try to pump me any more, ’cause I can’t tell you anything that would jeopardize the interests of justice. Hey! Where in thunder are you fellers goin’ with that hose an’ engine?”
The firemen were on a dead run.
“We’re goin’ a couple of hundred yards down the road, so’s we won’t be killed when that front wall caves in,” shouted Ed Higgins, without pausing. “Better come along, Anderson. She’s beginning to bulge something awful.”
Anderson Crow arose to the occasion.
“Lively now!” he barked through the trumpet. “Get that hose and engine back to a safe place! Can’t you see the wall’s about ready to fall? Everybody fall back! Women and children first! Women first, remember!”
Down the road fled the crowd, looking over its collective shoulders, so to speak—followed by the venerable fire apparatus and the still more venerable commander-in-chief.
Harry Squires, in his two-column account of the fire in the Banner, dilated upon the fact that the women failed to retain the advantage so gallantly extended by the men. For the matter of about ten or fifteen yards they were first; after which, being handicapped by petticoats, they fell ingloriously behind. Some of the older ones—maliciously, he feared—impeded the progress of their protectors by neglecting to get out of the way in time, with the result that at least two men were severely bruised by falling over them—the case of Uncle Dad Simms being a particularly sad one. He collided head-on with the portly Mrs. Loop, and failing to budge her, suffered the temporary loss of a full set of teeth and nearly twenty minutes of consciousness. Mr. Squires went on to say that the only thing that saved Mr. Simms from being run over and killed by the fire-engine was the fact that the latter was about a block and a half ahead of him when the accident occurred.
Sparks soared high and far on the smoke-laden wind, scurrying townward across the barren quarry-lands. The vast canopy was red with the glow of flying embers and fire-lit clouds. Below, in the dusty road, swarmed the long procession of citizens. Grim, stark hemlocks gleamed in the weird, uncanny light that turned the green of their foliage and the black of their trunks into the colour of the rose on the side facing the fire, but left them dark and forbidding on the other. The telegraph-poles beyond the burning warehouse lining the railroad spur that ventured down from the main line some miles away and terminated at Smock’s, loomed up like lofty gibbets in the ghastly light. Three quarters of a mile from the scene of the conflagration lay the homes of the people who lived on the rim of Tinkletown, and there also were the two churches and the motion-picture houses.
The George Barr McCutcheon Megapack: 25 Classic Novels and Stories Page 261