Iole

(13)

Do you expect me to stop my cruise and travel up to that hole on account of eight extenuating kids?

    Wayne.

(14)

I do.

    Briggs.

(15)

Are you mad?

    Wayne.

(16)

Thoroughly. And extremely busy.

    Briggs.

(17)

For the last time, Stuyve Briggs, are you going to bounce one defaulting poet and progeny, arrange to have survey and warnings posted, order timber and troughs for hatchery, engage extra patrol—or are you not?

    Wayne.

(18)

No.

    Briggs.

(19)

(Received a day later by Mr. Wayne.)

Are you coming?

    Briggs.

(20)

I’m coming to punch your head.

    Wayne.

II

WHEN George Wayne arrived at Rose-Cross station, seaburnt, angry, and in excellent athletic condition, Briggs locked himself in the waiting-room and attempted to calm the newcomer from the window.

“If you’re going to pitch into me, George,” he said, “I’m hanged if I come out, and you can go to Guilford’s alone.”

“Come out of there,” said Wayne dangerously.

“It isn’t because I’m afraid of you,” explained Briggs, “but it’s merely that I don’t choose to present either you or myself to a lot of pretty girls with the marks of conflict all over our eyes and noses.”

At the words “pretty girls” Wayne’s battle-set features relaxed. He motioned to the Pullman porter to deposit his luggage on the empty platform; the melancholy bell-notes of the locomotive sounded, the train moved slowly forward.

“Pretty girls?” he repeated in a softer voice. “Where are they staying? Of course, under the circumstances a personal encounter is superfluous. Where are they staying?”

“At Guilford’s. I told you so in my telegrams, didn’t I?”

“No, you didn’t. You spoke only of a poet and his eight helpless children.”

“Well, those girls are the eight children,” retorted Briggs sullenly, emerging from the station.

“Do you mean to tell me–”

“Yes, I do. They’re his children, aren’t they—even if they are girls, and pretty.” He offered a mollifying hand; Wayne took it, shook it uncertainly, and fell into step beside his friend. “Eight pretty girls,” he repeated under his breath. “What did you do, Stuyve?”

“What was I to do?” inquired Briggs, nervously worrying his short blond mustache. “When I arrived here I had made up my mind to fire the poet and arrange for the hatchery and patrol. The farther I walked through the dust of this accursed road, lugging my suit-case as you are doing now, the surer I was that I’d get rid of the poet without mercy. But–”

“Well?” inquired Wayne, astonished.

“But when I’d trudged some five miles up the stifling road I suddenly emerged into a wonderful mountain meadow. I tell you, George, it looked fresh and sweet as Heaven after that dusty, parching tramp—a mountain meadow deep with mint and juicy green grasses, and all cut up by little rushing streams as cold as ice. There were a lot of girls in pink sunbonnets picking wild strawberries in the middle distance,” he added thoughtfully. “It was picturesque, wasn’t it? Come, now, George, wouldn’t that give you pause?—eight girls in pink pajamas–”

“What!!!”

“And sunbonnets—a sort of dress reform of the poet’s.”

“Well?” inquired Wayne coldly.

“And there was the ‘house beautiful,’ mercifully screened by woods,” continued Briggs. “He calls it the house beautiful, you know.”

“Why not the beautiful house?” asked Wayne, still more coldly.

“Oh, he gets everything upside down. Guilford is harmless, you’ll see.” He began to whistle Fatinitza softly. There was a silence; then Wayne said:

“You interrupted your narrative.”

“Where was I?”

“In the foreground with eight pink pajamas in the middle distance.”

“Oh, yes. So there I was, travel-worn, thirsty, weary, uncertain–”