Webster—Man's Man. Peter B. KyneЧитать онлайн книгу.
observation-car.
“Well, old-timer,” Webster greeted the fellow who had been annoying her, “how about you? What do you think we ought to do about this little affair?”
“The sensible thing would be to do—nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing.”
“Why?”
“You might start something you couldn't finish.”
“That's a dare,” Webster declared brightly, “and wasn't it the immortal Huckleberry Finn who remarked that anybody that'd take a dare would suck eggs and steal sheep?” He caressed his beard meditatively. “They say the good Lord made man to His own image and likeness. I take it those were only the specifications for the building complete—the painting and interior decorating, not to mention the furnishings, being let to a sub-contractor.” He was silent a few seconds, appraising his man. “I suppose you commenced operations by moving into her section and asking if she would like to have the window open and enjoy the fresh air. Of course if she had wanted the window open, she would have called the porter. She rebuffed you, but being a persistent devil, you followed her into the observation-car, and in all probability you ogled her at luncheon and ruined her appetite. And just now, when you met her in this vestibule, you doubtless jostled her, begged her pardon and without waiting to be introduced asked her to have dinner with you this evening.”
“Well?” the fellow echoed belligerently.
“It's all bad form. You shouldn't try to make a mash on a lady. I don't know who she is, of course, but she's not common; she's travelling without a chaperon, I take it, and for the sake of the mother that bore me I always respect and protect a good woman and whale hell out of those that do not.”
He reached inside his stateroom and pressed the bell. The porter arrived on the run.
“George,” said Mr. Webster, “in a few minutes we're due at Smithville. If my memory serves me aright, we stop five minutes for water and orders.”
“Yassah.”
“Remain right here and let me off as soon as the train comes to a stop.”
When the train slid to a grinding halt and the porter opened the car door, Webster pointed.
“Out!” he said. “This is no nice place to pull off a scrap.”
“See here, neighbour, I don't want to have any trouble with you——”
“I know it. All the same, you're going to have it—or come with me to that young lady and beg her pardon.”
There are some things in this world which the most craven of men will not do—and the vanity of that masher forbade acceptance of Webster's alternative. He preferred to fight, but—he did not purpose being thrashed. He resolved on strategy.
“All right. I'll apologize,” he declared, and started forward as if to pass Webster in the vestibule, on his way to the observation-car, whither the subject of his annoying attentions had gone. Two steps brought him within striking distance of his enemy, and before Webster could dodge, a sizzling righthanded blow landed on his jaw and set him back on his haunches in the vestibule.
It was almost a knockout—almost, but not quite. As Webster's body struck the floor the big automatic came out of the holster; swinging in a weak circle, it covered the other.
“That was a daisy,” Webster mumbled. “If you move before my head clears, I'll put four bullets into you before you reach the corridor.”
He waited about a minute; then with the gun he pointed to the car door, and the masher stepped out. Webster handed the porter his gun and followed; two minutes later he returned, dragging his assailant by the collar. Up the steps he jerked the big battered hulk and tossed it in the corner of the vestibule, just as the girl came through the car, making for the diner up ahead.
Again she favoured him with that calm, grave, yet vitally interested gaze, nodded appreciatively, made as if to pass on, changed her mind, and said very gravely: “You are—a very courtly gentleman, sir.”
He bowed. There was nothing else to do, nothing that he could say, under the circumstances; to use his chivalry as a wedge to open an acquaintance never occurred to him—but his whiskers did occur to him. Hastily he backed into his stateroom and closed the door; presently he rose and surveyed himself critically in the small mirror over the washstand.
“No, Johnny,” he murmured, “we can't go into the diner now. We're too blamed disreputable. We were bad enough before that big swine hung the shanty on our right eye, but whatever our physical and personal feelings, far be it from us to parade our iridescent orb in public. Besides, one look at that queen is enough to do us for the remainder of our natural life, and a second look, minus a proper introduction, would only drive us into a suicide's grave. That's a fair sample of our luck, Johnny. It rains duck soup—and we're there like a Chinaman—with chopsticks; and on the only day in the history of the human race, here I am with a marvellous black eye, a dislocated thumb, four skinned knuckles, and a grouch, while otherwise looking like a cross between Rip Van Winkle and a hired man.” He sighed, rang for the porter and told him to send a waiter for his order, since he would fain break his fast in the privacy of his stateroom. And when the waiter came for the order, such was Mr. Webster's mental perturbation that ham and eggs were furthest from his thoughts. He ordered a steak with French fried potatoes.
CHAPTER II
JOHN STUART WEBSTER passed a restless night. Sleep came to him in hourly installments, from which he would rouse to ask himself whether it was worth while to continue to go through the motions of living, or alight at the next station, seek a lonely and unfrequented spot and there surrender to outrageous fortune. He had lived every moment of his life; fair fortune and ill had been his portion so often that he had long since ceased to care which took precedence over the other; to quote Mr. Kipling, he had schooled himself to “treat those two impostors both the same”—not a very difficult task, if one be granted a breathing spell between the arrival of each impostor! Hitherto, in Webster's experience, there had always been a decent interval between the two—say a day, a week, a month or more; whereas in the present instance, two minutes had sufficed to make the journey from a heaven of contentment to the dungeons of despair.
It was altogether damnable. In a careless moment, Fate had accorded him a glimpse of the only woman he had ever met and desired to meet again—for Webster was essentially a man's man, and his profession and environment had militated against his opportunities for meeting extraordinary women; and extraordinary women were the only kind that could hope to challenge his serious attention. Had his luck changed there, he might have rested content with his lot—but it hadn't. Fate had gone farther. She had accorded him a signal opportunity for knightly combat in the service of this extraordinary woman; and in the absence of a formal introduction, what man could desire a finer opportunity for getting acquainted! If only their meeting had but been delayed two weeks, ten days, a week! Once free of his ugly cocoon of rags and whiskers, the butterfly Webster would not have hesitated one brief instant to inform himself of that young lady's name and address, following his summary disposal of her tormentor. Trusting to the mingled respect and confusion in his manner, and to her own womanly intuition to warn her that no rudeness or brazen familiarity was intended, he would have presented himself before her and addressed her in these words:
“A few minutes ago, Miss, you were gracious enough to accord me the rare pleasure of being of slight service to you. May I presume on that evidence of your generosity and perfect understanding to risk a seeming impertinence by presuming to address you?”
Webster pictured her as bowing, favouring him with that grave yet interested scrutiny and saying: “Certainly, sir.” Whereupon he