he said. “I wonder if there is a hotel in Gayfield.”
“The Gayfield House.”
“Is it very bad?” he asked jocosely.
She seemed surprised. It was considered good, she thought.
With a slight, silent nod of dismissal she crossed the road and went into the house, leaving him standing beside his wrecked machine once more, looking after her out of sluggish eyes.
Presently, from the house, emerged Stull, his pasty face startling in its pallor under the cloudless sky, and walked slowly over to Brandes.
“Well, Ben,” said the latter pleasantly, “I’m going to Gayfield to telegraph for another car.”
“How soon can they get one up?” inquired Stull, inserting a large cigar into his slitted mouth and lighting it.
“Oh, in a couple of days, I guess. I don’t know. I don’t care much, either.”
“We can go on to Saratoga by train,” suggested Stull complacently.
“We can stay here, too.”
“What for?”
Brandes said in his tight-lipped, even voice:
“The fishing’s good. I guess I’ll try it.” He continued to contemplate the machine, but Stull’s black eyes were turned on him intently.
“How about the races?” he asked. “Do we go or not?”
“Certainly.”
“When?”
“When they send us a car to go in.”
“Isn’t the train good enough?”
“The fishing here is better.”
Stull’s pasty visage turned sourer:
“Do you mean we lose a couple of days in this God-forsaken dump because you’d rather go to Saratoga in a runabout than in a train?”
“I tell you I’m going to stick around for a while.”
“For how long?”
“Oh, I don’t know. When we get our car we can talk it over and–”
“Ah,” ejaculated Stull in disgust, “what the hell’s the matter with you? Is it that little skirt you was buzzing out here like you never seen one before?”
“How did you guess, Ben?” returned Brandes with the almost expressionless jocularity that characterised him at times.
“That little red-headed, spindling, freckled, milk-fed mill-hand–”
“Funny, ain’t it? But there’s no telling what will catch the tired business man, is there, Ben?”
“Well, what does catch him?” demanded Stull angrily. “What’s the answer?”
“I guess she’s the answer, Ben.”
“Ah, leave the kid alone–”
“I’m going to have the car sent up here. I’m going to take her out. Go on to Saratoga if you want to. I’ll meet you there–”
“When?”
“When I’m ready,” replied Brandes evenly. But he smiled.
Stull looked at him, and his white face, soured by dyspepsia, became sullen with wrath. At such times, too, his grammar suffered from indigestion.
“Say, Eddie,” he began, “can’t no one learn you nothin’ at all? How many times would you have been better off if you’d listened to me? Every time you throw me you hand yourself one. Now that you got a little money again and a little backing, don’t do anything like that–”
“Like what?”
“Like chasin’ dames! Don’t act foolish like you done in Chicago last summer! You wouldn’t listen to me then, would you? And that Denver business, too! Say, look at all the foolish things you done against all I could say to save you – like backing that cowboy plug against Battling Jensen! – Like taking that big hunk o’ beef, Walstein, to San Antonio, where Kid O’Rourke put him out in the first! And everybody’s laughing at you yet! Ah–” he exclaimed angrily, “somebody tell me why I don’t quit you, you big dill pickle! I wish someone would tell me why I stand for you, because I don’t know… And look what you’re doing now; you got some money of your own and plenty of syndicate money to put on the races and a big comish! You got a good theayter in town with Morris Stein to back you and everything – and look what you’re doing!” he ended bitterly.
Brandes tightened his dental grip on his cigar and squinted at him good-humouredly.
“Say, Ben,” he said, “would you believe it if I told you I’m stuck on her?”
“Ah, you’d fall for anything. I never seen a skirt you wouldn’t chase.”
“I don’t mean that kind.”
“What kind, then?”
“This is on the level, Ben.”
“What! Ah, go on! You on the level?”
“All the same, I am.”
“You can’t be on the level! You don’t know how.”
“Why?”
“You got a wife, and you know damn well you have.”
“Yes, and she’s getting her divorce.”
Stull regarded him with habitual and sullen distrust.
“She hasn’t got it yet.”
“She’ll get it. Don’t worry.”
“I thought you was for fighting it.”
“I was going to fight it; but–” His slow, narrow, greenish eyes stole toward the house across the road.
“Just like that,” he said, after a slight pause; “that’s the way the little girl hit me. I’m on the level, Ben. First skirt I ever saw that I wanted to find waiting dinner for me when I come home. Get me?”
“I don’t know whether I do or not.”
“Get this, then; she isn’t all over paint; she’s got freckles, thank God, and she smells sweet as a daisy field. Ah, what the hell–” he burst out between his parted teeth “ – when every woman in New York smells like a chorus girl! Don’t I get it all day? The whole city stinks like a star’s dressing room. And I married one! And I’m through. I want to get my breath and I’m getting it.”
Stull’s white features betrayed merely the morbid suffering of indigestion; he said nothing and sucked his cigar.
“I’m through,” repeated Brandes. “I want a home and a wife – the kind that even a fly
