Webster—Man's Man. Peter B. KyneЧитать онлайн книгу.
as is used in mines, and from the lever of the gong-clapper depended a cord which Webster seized and jerked thrice—thus striking the signal known to all of the mining fraternity—the signal to hoist! Only those members who had been sojourning in distant parts six months or more were privileged thus to disturb the peace and dignity of the Engineers' Club, the same privilege, by the way, carrying with it the obligation of paying for the materials shortly to be hoisted!
Having announced the return of a prodigal, our hero stepped to the door of the lounge and shouted:
“John Stuart Webster, E. M.”
The room was empty. Not a single member was present to greet the wanderer and accept of his invitation!
“Home was never like this when I was a boy,” he complained to the servant at the telephone exchange. “Times must be pretty good in the mining game in Colorado when everybody has a job that keeps him out of Denver.”
The servant rose and essayed a raid on his hat and stick, but Mr. Webster, who was impatient at thus finding himself amidst old scenes, fended him away and said “Shoo fly!” Then he crossed the empty lounge and ascended the stairs leading to the card room, at the entrance of which he paused, leaning on his stick—in unconscious imitation of a Sicilian gentleman posing for his photograph after his first payday in America—swept that room with a wistful eye and sighed because nothing had changed in three long years.
Save for the slight job of kalsomining which Father Time had done on the edges of the close-cropped Websterian moustache, the returned prodigal might have stepped out of the Club but yesterday. He would not have taken the short end of a modest bet that even a fresh log had been placed on the fire or that the domino-players over against the wall had won or lost a drink or two and then resumed playing—although perchance there were a few more gray hairs in the thickly thatched head of old Neddy Jerome, sitting in his favourite seat by the window and turning the cards in his eternal game of solitaire, in blissful ignorance that John Stuart Webster stood within the portals of home and awaited the fatted calf.
“I'll hypnotize the old pelican into looking up,” Webster soliloquized, and forthwith bent a beetling gaze upon the player. For as many as five seconds he strove to demonstrate the superiority of mind over solitaire; then, despairing of success, he struck the upholstery of an adjacent chair a terrific blow with his stick—the effect of which was to cause everybody in the room to start and to conceal Mr. Webster momentarily in a cloud of dust, the while in a bellowing baritone he sang:
His father was a hard-rock miner;
He comes from my home town——
“Jack Webster! The devil's own kin!” shouted Neddy Jerome. He swept the cards into a heap and waddled across the room to meet this latest assailant of the peace and dignity of the Engineers' Club. “You old, worthless, ornery, no-good son of a lizard! I've never been so glad to see a man that didn't owe me money.” He seized Webster's hand in both of his and wrung it affectionately. “Jack,” he continued, “I've been combing the whole civilized world for you, for a month, at least. Where the devil have you been?”
John Stuart Webster beamed happily upon his friend. “Well, Neddy, you old stocking-knitter,” he replied quizzically, “since that is the case, I'm not surprised at your failure to find me. You've known me long enough to have remembered to confine your search to the uncivilized reaches.”
“Well, you're here, at any rate, and I'm happy. Now you'll settle down.”
“Hardly, Neddy. I'm young yet, you know—only forty. Still a real live man and not quite ready to degenerate into a card-playing, eat-drink-and-be-merry, die-of-inanition, sink-to-oblivion, and go-to-hell fireplace spirit!” And he prodded Jerome in the short ribs with a tentative thumb that caused the old man to wince. He turned to greet the halfdozen card-players who had looked up at his noisy entrance—deciding that since they were strangers to him they were mere half-baked young whelps but lately graduated from some school of mines—and permitted his friend to drag him downstairs to the deserted lounge, where Jerome paused in the middle of the room and renewed his query:
“Johnny, where have you been?”
“Lead me to a seat, O thou of little manners,” Webster retorted. “Here, boy! Remove my property and guard it well. I will stay and disport myself.” And he suffered himself to be dispossessed of his hat, gloves, and stick. “It used to be the custom here,” he resumed, addressing Jerome, “that when one of the Old Guard returned, he was obliged to ask his friends to indicate their poison——”
“Where have you been, I ask?”
“Out in Death Valley, California, trying to pry loose a fortune.”
“Did you pry it?”
John Stuart Webster arched his eyebrows in mock reproach. “And you can see my new suit, Neddy, my sixteen-dollar, made-to-order shoes, and my horny hoofs encased in silken hose—and ask that question? Freshly shaved and ironed and almost afraid to sit down and get wrinkles in my trousers! Smell that!” He blew a cloud of cigar smoke into Jerome's smiling face. The latter sniffed. “It smells expensive,” he replied.
“Yes, and you can bet it tastes expensive, too,” Webster answered, handing his cigar-case to his friend—who helped himself and said:
“So you've made your pile, eh, Jack?”
“Do you suppose I would have come back to Colorado without money? Haven't you lived long enough, Neddy, to realize that when a man has money he never knows where to go to spend it? It's so blamed hard to make up one's mind, with all the world to choose from, and so the only place I could think of was the old Engineers' Club in Denver. There, at least, I knew I would find one man of my acquaintance—an old granny named Neddy Jerome. Yes, Neddy, I knew I would find you playing solitaire, with your old heart beating about seven times an hour, your feet good and warm, and a touch of misery around your liver from lack of exercise.”
Jerome bit the end of his cigar and spat derisively. “How much have you made?” he demanded bluntly, “It's none of your business, but I'll tell you because I love you, Neddy. I've made one hundred thousand dollars.”
“Chicken-feed,” Jerome retorted.
Webster glanced around. “I thought at first nothing had changed in the old place,” he said, “but I see I was mistaken.”
“Why, what's wrong, Jack?”
“Why, when I was here before, they used to ask a man if he had a mouth—and now they ask him how much money he's made, where he made it, and—why, hello, Mose, you black old scoundrel, how do you do? Glad to see you. Take the order, Mose: some milk and vichy for Mr. Jerome, and a——”
“Yassuh, yassuh,” Mose interrupted, “an' a Stinger for you, suh.”
“Gone but not forgotten,” breathed Mr. Webster, and walled his eyes piously after the fashion of one about to say grace before a meal. “How sweet a thing is life with a club servant like old black Mose, who does things without an order. I feel at home—at last.”
“Johnny,” Jerome began again, “I've been combing the mineral belt of North and South America for you for a month.”
“Why this sudden belated interest in me?”
“I have a fine job for you, John——”
“King's X,” Webster interrupted, and showed both hands with the fingers crossed. “No plotting against my peace and comfort, Neddy. Haven't I told you I'm all dressed up for the first time in three years, that I have money in my pocket and more in bank? Man, I'm going to tread the primrose path for a year before I get back into the harness again.”
Jerome waved a deprecatory hand, figuratively brushing aside such feeble and inconsequential argument. “Are you foot-loose?” he demanded.
“I'm not. I'm bound in golden chains——”
“Married,