________________________________________________
_ Forrest entered a section of the Big House by way of a massive, hewn-
timber, iron-studded door that let in at the foot of what seemed a
donjon keep. The floor was cement, and doors let off in various
directions. One, opening to a Chinese in the white apron and starched
cap of a chef, emitted at the same time the low hum of a dynamo. It
was this that deflected Forrest from his straight path. He paused,
holding the door ajar, and peered into a cool, electric-lighted cement
room where stood a long, glass-fronted, glass-shelved refrigerator
flanked by an ice-machine and a dynamo. On the floor, in greasy
overalls, squatted a greasy little man to whom his employer nodded.
"Anything wrong, Thompson?" he asked.
"There _was,"_ was the answer, positive and complete.
Forrest closed the door and went on along a passage that was like a
tunnel. Narrow, iron-barred openings, like the slits for archers in
medieval castles, dimly lighted the way. Another door gave access to a
long, low room, beam-ceilinged, with a fireplace in which an ox could
have been roasted. A huge stump, resting on a bed of coals, blazed
brightly. Two billiard tables, several card tables, lounging corners,
and a miniature bar constituted the major furnishing. Two young men
chalked their cues and returned Forrest's greeting.
"Good morning, Mr. Naismith," he bantered. "--More material for the
_Breeders' Gazette?"_
Naismith, a youngish man of thirty, with glasses, smiled sheepishly
and cocked his head at his companion.
"Wainwright challenged me," he explained.
"Which means that Lute and Ernestine must still be beauty-sleeping,"
Forrest laughed.
Young Wainwright bristled to acceptance of the challenge, but before
he could utter the retort on his lips his host was moving on and
addressing Naismith over his shoulder.
"Do you want to come along at eleven:thirty? Thayer and I are running
out in the machine to look over the Shropshires. He wants about ten
carloads of rams. You ought to find good stuff in this matter of Idaho
shipments. Bring your camera along.--Seen Thayer this morning?"
"Just came in to breakfast as we were leaving," Bert Wainwright
volunteered.
"Tell him to be ready at eleven-thirty if you see him. You're not
invited, Bert... out of kindness. The girls are sure to be up then."
"Take Rita along with you anyway," Bert pleaded.
"No fear," was Forrest's reply from the door. "We're on business.
Besides, you can't pry Rita from Ernestine with block-and-tackle."
"That's why I wanted to see if you could," Bert grinned.
"Funny how fellows never appreciate their own sisters." Forrest paused
for a perceptible moment. "I always thought Rita was a real nice
sister. What's the matter with her?"
Before a reply could reach him, he had closed the door and was
jingling his spurs along the passage to a spiral stairway of broad
concrete steps. As he left the head of the stairway, a dance-time
piano measure and burst of laughter made him peep into a white morning
room, flooded with sunshine. A young girl, in rose-colored kimono and
boudoir cap, was at the instrument, while two others, similarly
accoutered, in each other's arms, were parodying a dance never learned
at dancing school nor intended by the participants for male eyes to
see.
The girl at the piano discovered him, winked, and played on. Not for
another minute did the dancers spy him. They gave startled cries,
collapsed, laughing, in each other's arms, and the music stopped. They
were gorgeous, healthy young creatures, the three of them, and
Forrest's eye kindled as he looked at them in quite the same way that
it had kindled when he regarded the Fotherington Princess.
Persiflage, of the sort that obtains among young things of the human
kind, flew back and forth.
"I've been here five minutes," Dick Forrest asserted.
The two dancers, to cover their confusion, doubted his veracity and
instanced his many well-known and notorious guilts of mendacity. The
girl at the piano, Ernestine, his sister-in-law, insisted that pearls
of truth fell from his lips, that she had seen him from the moment he
began to look, and that as she estimated the passage of time he had
been looking much longer than five minutes.
"Well, anyway," Forrest broke in on their babel, "Bert, the sweet
innocent, doesn't think you are up yet."
"We're not... to him," one of the dancers, a vivacious young Venus,
retorted. "Nor are we to you either. So run along, little boy. Run
along."
"Look here, Lute," Forrest began sternly. "Just because I am a
decrepit old man, and just because you are eighteen, just eighteen,
and happen to be my wife's sister, you needn't presume to put the high
and mighty over on me. Don't forget--and I state the fact,
disagreeable as it may be, for Rita's sake--don't forget that in the
past ten years I've paddled you more disgraceful times than you care
to dare me to enumerate.
"It is true, I am not so young as I used to was, but--" He felt the
biceps of his right arm and made as if to roll up the sleeve. "--But,
I'm not all in yet, and for two cents..."
"What?" the young woman challenged belligerently.
"For two cents," he muttered darkly. "For two cents... Besides, and it
grieves me to inform you, your cap is not on straight. Also, it is not
a very tasteful creation at best. I could make a far more becoming cap
with my toes, asleep, and... yes, seasick as well."
Lute tossed her blond head defiantly, glanced at her comrades in
solicitation of support, and said:
"Oh, I don't know. It seems humanly reasonable that the three of us
can woman-handle a mere man of your elderly and insulting avoirdupois.
What do you say, girls? Let's rush him. He's not a minute under forty,
and he has an aneurism. Yes, and though loath to divulge family
secrets, he's got Meniere's Disease."
Ernestine, a small but robust blonde of eighteen, sprang from the
piano and joined her two comrades in a raid on the cushions of the
deep window seats. Side by side, a cushion in each hand, and with
proper distance between them cannily established for the swinging of
the cushions, they advanced upon the foe.
Forrest prepared for battle, then held up his hand for parley.
"'Fraid cat!" they taunted, in several at first, and then in chorus.
He shook his head emphatically.
"Just for that, and for all the rest of your insolences, the three of
you are going to get yours. All the wrongs of a lifetime are rising
now in my brain in a dazzling brightness. I shall go Berserk in a
moment. But first, and I speak as an agriculturist, and I address
myself to you, Lute, in all humility, in heaven's name what is
Meniere's Disease? Do sheep catch it?"
"Meniere's Disease is," Lute began,... "is what you've got. Sheep are
the only known living creatures that get it."
Ensued red war and chaos. Forrest made a football rush of the sort
that obtained in California before the adoption of Rugby; and the
girls broke the line to let him through, turned upon him, flanked him
on either side, and pounded him with cushions.
He turned, with widespread arms, extended fingers, each finger a hook,
and grappled the three. The battle became a whirlwind, a be-spurred
man the center, from which radiated flying draperies of flimsy silk,
disconnected slippers, boudoir caps, and hairpins. There were thuds
from the cushions, grunts from the man, squeals, yelps and giggles
from the girls, and from the totality of the combat inextinguishable
laughter and a ripping and tearing of fragile textures.
Dick Forrest found himself sprawled on the floor, the wind half
knocked out of him by shrewdly delivered cushions, his head buzzing
from the buffeting, and, in one hand, a trailing, torn, and generally
disrupted girdle of pale blue silk and pink roses.
In one doorway, cheeks flaming from the struggle, stood Rita, alert as
a fawn and ready to flee. In the other doorway, likewise flame-
checked, stood Ernestine in the commanding attitude of the Mother of
the Gracchi, the wreckage of her kimono wrapped severely about her and
held severely about her by her own waist-pressing arm. Lute, cornered
behind the piano, attempted to run but was driven back by the menace
of Forrest, who, on hands and knees, stamped loudly with the palms of
his hands on the hardwood floor, rolled his head savagely, and emitted
bull-like roars.
"And they still believe that old prehistoric myth," Ernestine
proclaimed from safety, "that once he, that wretched semblance of a
man-thing prone in the dirt, captained Berkeley to victory over
Stanford."
Her breasts heaved from the exertion, and he marked the pulsating of
the shimmering cherry-colored silk with delight as he flung his glance
around to the other two girls similarly breathing.
The piano was a miniature grand--a dainty thing of rich white and gold
to match the morning room. It stood out from the wall, so that there
was possibility for Lute to escape around either way of it. Forrest
gained his feet and faced her across the broad, flat top of the
instrument. As he threatened to vault it, Lute cried out in horror:
"But your spurs, Dick! Your spurs!"
"Give me time to take them off," he offered.
As he stooped to unbuckle them, Lute darted to escape, but was herded
back to the shelter of the piano.
"All right," he growled. "On your head be it. If the piano's scratched
I'll tell Paula."
"I've got witnesses," she panted, indicating with her blue joyous eyes
the young things in the doorways.
"Very well, my dear." Forrest drew back his body and spread his
resting palms. "I'm coming over to you."
Action and speech were simultaneous. His body, posited sidewise from
his hands, was vaulted across, the perilous spurs a full foot above
the glossy white surface. And simultaneously Lute ducked and went
under the piano on hands and knees. Her mischance lay in that she
bumped her head, and, before she could recover way, Forrest had
circled the piano and cornered her under it.
"Come out!" he commanded. "Come out and take your medicine!"
"A truce," she pleaded. "A truce, Sir Knight, for dear love's sake and
all damsels in distress."
"I ain't no knight," Forrest announced in his deepest bass. "I'm an
ogre, a filthy, debased and altogether unregenerate ogre. I was born
in the tule-swamps. My father was an ogre and my mother was more so. I
was lulled to slumber on the squalls of infants dead, foreordained,
and predamned. I was nourished solely on the blood of maidens educated
in Mills Seminary. My favorite chophouse has ever been a hardwood
floor, a loaf of Mills Seminary maiden, and a roof of flat piano. My
father, as well as an ogre, was a California horse-thief. I am more
reprehensible than my father. I have more teeth. My mother, as well as
an ogress, was a Nevada book-canvasser. Let all her shame be told. She
even solicited subscriptions for ladies' magazines. I am more terrible
than my mother. I have peddled safety razors."
"Can naught soothe and charm your savage breast?" Lute pleaded in
soulful tones while she studied her chances for escape.
"One thing only, miserable female. One thing only, on the earth, over
the earth, and under its ruining waters--"
A squawk of recognized plagiarism interrupted him from Ernestine.
"See Ernest Dowson, page seventy-nine, a thin book of thin verse
ladled out with porridge to young women detentioned at Mills
Seminary," Forrest went on. "As I had already enunciated before I was
so rudely interrupted, the one thing only that can balm and embalm
this savage breast is the 'Maiden's Prayer.' Listen, with all your
ears ere I chew them off in multitude and gross! Listen, silly,
unbeautiful, squat, short-legged and ugly female under the piano! Can
you recite the 'Maiden's Prayer'?"
Screams of delight from the young things in the doorways prevented the
proper answer and Lute, from under the piano, cried out to young
Wainwright, who had appeared:
"A rescue, Sir Knight! A rescue!"
"Unhand the maiden!" was Bert's challenge.
"Who art thou?" Forrest demanded.
"King George, sirrah!--I mean, er, Saint George."
"Then am I thy dragon," Forrest announced with due humility. "Spare
this ancient, honorable, and only neck I have."
"Off with his head!" the young things encouraged.
"Stay thee, maidens, I pray thee," Bert begged. "I am only a Small
Potato. Yet am I unafraid. I shall beard the dragon. I shall beard him
in his gullet, and, while he lingeringly chokes to death over my
unpalatableness and general spinefulness, do you, fair damsels, flee
to the mountains lest the valleys fall upon you. Yolo, Petaluma, and
West Sacramento are about to be overwhelmed by a tidal wave and many
big fishes."
"Off with his head!" the young things chanted. "Slay him in his blood
and barbecue him!"
"Thumbs down," Forrest groaned. "I am undone. Trust to the unstrained
quality of mercy possessed by Christian young women in the year 1914
who will vote some day if ever they grow up and do not marry
foreigners. Consider my head off, Saint George. I am expired. Further
deponent sayeth not."
And Forrest, with sobs and slubberings, with realistic shudders and
kicks and a great jingling of spurs, lay down on the floor and
expired.
Lute crawled out from under the piano, and was joined by Rita and
Ernestine in an extemporized dance of the harpies about the slain.
In the midst of it, Forrest sat up, protesting. Also, he was guilty of
a significant and privy wink to Lute.
"The hero!" he cried. "Forget him not. Crown him with flowers."
And Bert was crowned with flowers from the vases, unchanged from the
day before. When a bunch of water-logged stems of early tulips,
propelled by Lute's vigorous arm, impacted soggily on his neck under
the ear, he fled. The riot of pursuit echoed along the hall and died
out down the stairway toward the stag room. Forrest gathered himself
together, and, grinning, went jingling on through the Big House.
He crossed two patios on brick walks roofed with Spanish tile and
swamped with early foliage and blooms, and gained his wing of the
house, still breathing from the fun, to find, in the office, his
secretary awaiting him.
"Good morning, Mr. Blake," he greeted. "Sorry I was delayed." He
glanced at his wrist-watch. "Only four minutes, however. I just
couldn't get away sooner." _
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