Quill's Window Part 8

Charlie Webster grinned amiably. He was not offended by the other's tone.

"Well, I've seen it in the movies," he explained. "What are you sore about?"

"Sore? I'm not sore. What put that into your head?"

The rotund superintendent of the elevator fanned himself lazily with his straw hat.

"If I was fifteen years younger and fifty pounds lighter," said he, "I'd be sore too. But what's the use of a fat old slob like me getting peeved because Miss Alix Crown don't happen to notice me?

Oh, we're great friends and all that, mind you, and she thinks a lot of me,--as manager of her grain elevator. Same as she thinks a lot of Jim Bagley, her superintendent,--and Ed Stevens, her chauffeur, and so on. Now, as for you, it's different. You're from New York and it goes against the grain to be overlooked, you might say, by a girl from Indiana. Oh, I know what you New Yorkers think of Indiana,--and all that therein is, as the Scriptures would say.

You think that nothing but b.o.o.bs and corn-fed squaws come from Indiana, but if you hang around long enough you'll find you're mistaken. This state is full of girls like Alix Crown,--bright, smart, good-looking girls that have been a h.e.l.l of a ways farther east than New York. Of course, there are b.o.o.bs like me and Doc Simpson and Tintype Hatch who get up to Chicago once every three or four years and have to sew our return trip tickets inside our belly-bands so's we can be sure of getting back home after Chicago gets through admiring us, but now since prohibition has come in I don't know but what we're as bright and clever as anybody else.

Most of the fellers I've run across in Chicago seem to be brightest just after they change feet on the rail and ask the bartender if he knows how to make a cuc.u.mber c.o.c.ktail, or something else as clever as that. But that ain't what we were talking about. We were talking about--"

"I wasn't talking about anything," interrupted Courtney.

"Oh, yes, you were," said Charlie. "Not out loud, of course,--but talking just the same. You were talking about Alix Crown and the way she forgot to invite you to take a ride with the rest of--"

"See here, Webster,--are you trying to be offensive?"

"Offensive? Lord, no! I'm just TELLING you, that's all. On the level now, am I right or wrong?"

"I do not know Miss Crown," replied Thane stiffly. "Why should I expect her to ask me,--a total stranger,--to go out in her car?"

"Didn't Maude Pollock introduce you a while ago?"

"No," said the other succinctly.

"Well, by gosh, that ain't like Maude," exclaimed Charlie. "I'd 'a' bet two dollars she said 'I want to present my friend from New York, Mr. Courtney Thane, the distinguished aviator, Miss Crown,'

or something like that. I can't understand Maude missing a chance like that. She just LOVES it."

Courtney smiled. "I daresay she wasn't quick enough," he said drily.

"Miss Crown was in a hurry. And I left before she came out of the house. Now is your curiosity satisfied?"

"Absolutely," said Charlie. "Now I'll sleep soundly tonight. I was afraid the darned thing would keep me awake all night. Remember me saying I had a small stock hid away up in my room? What say to going up,--now that the coast is clear,--and having a nip or two?"

"No, thanks, old man. I don't drink. Doctor's orders. Besides, I've got some letters to write. I'll walk home with you if you're ready to go."

II

Mr. Webster shook his head sadly. "That's the one drawback to livin' in Windomville," he said. "People either want to drink too much or they don't want to drink at all. n.o.body wants to drink in moderation. Now, here's you, for instance. You look like a feller that could kiss a highball or two without compromising yourself, and there's Hatch that has to hold his nose so's he won't get drunk if he comes within ten feet of a gla.s.s of whiskey." They were strolling slowly toward the Tavern. "Now you up and claim you're on the water wagon. I'd been counting on you, Court,--I certainly had. The last time I took Hatch and Doc Simpson up to my room,--that was on the Fourth of last July,--I had to sleep on the floor. Course, if I was skinny like Doc and Hatch that wouldn't have been necessary.

But I can't bear sleepin' three in a bed. Doctor's orders, eh? That comes of livin' in New York. There ain't a doctor in Indiana that would stoop so low as that,--not one. Look at old man Nichols. He's eighty-two years old and up to about a year ago he never missed a day without taking a couple o' swigs of rye. He swears he wouldn't have lived to be more than seventy-five if he hadn't taken his daily nip. That shows how smart and sensible our doctors are out here. They--"

"By the way, Mrs. Nichols appears to be a remarkably well-preserved old lady,--aside from her hearing. How old is she?"

"Eighty-three. Wonderful old woman."

"I suppose she has always had her daily swig of rye."

Charlie Webster was silent for a moment. He had to think. This was a very serious and unexpected complication.

"What did you say?" he inquired, fencing for time.

"Has she always been a steady drinker, like the old man?"

Charlie was a gentleman. He sighed.

"I guess it's time to change the subject," he said. "The only way you could get a spoonful of whiskey down that old woman would be to chloroform her. If I'm any good at guessin', she'll outlive the old man by ten years,--so what's the sense of me preachin' to you about the life preserving virtues of booze? Oh, Lordy! There's another of my best arguments knocked galley-west. It's no use. I've been playing old man Nichols for nearly fifteen years as a bright and s.h.i.+ning light, and he turns out to be nothing but a busted flush. She's had eleven children and he's never had anything worse than a headache, and, by gosh, he's hangin' onto her with both hands for support to keep his other foot from slippin' into the grave.

But,"--and here his face brightened suddenly,--"there's one thing to be said, Court. She didn't consult any darned fool doctor about it."

Courtney was ashamed of his churlishness toward this good-natured little man.

"Say no more, Charlie. I'll break my rule this once if it will make you feel any better. One little drink, that's all,--in spite of the doctor. He's a long way off, and I daresay he'll never know the difference. Lead the way, old chap. Anything to cheer up a disconsolate comrade."

A few minutes later they were in Webster's room, second floor back. The highly gratified host had lighted the kerosene lamp on the table in the centre of the room, and pulled down the window shades. Then, putting his fingers to his lips to enjoin silence, he tip-toed to the door and threw it open suddenly. After peering into the hall and listening intently for a moment, he cautiously closed it again.

"All's well, as the watchman says at midnight," he remarked, as he drew his key ring from his hip pocket and selected a key with unerring precision from the extensive a.s.sortment. "I always do that," he added. "I don't suppose it was necessary tonight, because Angie Miller has got Hatch where he can't possibly escape. Long as she knows where he is, she don't do much snooping. She used to be the same way with me,--and Doc, too, for that matter. Poor Hatch,--setting down there in the parlour,--listening to her talk about birds and flowers and trying to help her guess what she's going to give him for next Christmas. It's h.e.l.l to be a bachelor, Court."

He unlocked a trunk in the corner of the room, and after lifting out two trays produced a half empty whiskey bottle.

"I had a dozen of these to begin with," said he, holding the bottle up to the light. "Dollar sixty a quart. Quite a nifty little stock, eh?"

"Is that all you have left?"

Charlie scratched his ear reflectively.

"Well, you see, I've had a good deal of toothache lately," he announced. "And as soon as Doc Simpson and Hatch found out about it, they begin to complain about their teeth achin' too. Seemed to be a sort of epidemic of toothache, Court. Nothing like whiskey for the toothache, you know."

"But Simpson is a dentist. Why don't you have him treat your teeth?"

"Seems as though he'd sooner have me treat his," said Charlie, with a slight grimace. Rummaging about in the top tray of the trunk, he produced a couple of bar gla.s.ses, which he carefully rinsed at the washstand. "Tastes better when you drink it out of a regular gla.s.s," he explained. "Always seems sort of cowardly to me to take it with water,--almost as if you were trying to drown it so's it won't be able to bite back when you tackle it. Needn't mind sayin'

'when' The gla.s.s holds just so much, and I know enough to stop when it begins to run over. Well! Here's hoping your toothache will be better in the morning, Court."

"I don't think I ought to rob you like this, Charlie,--"

"Lord, man, you're not robbing me. If you're robbing anybody, it's Doc Simpson,--and he's been absolutely free from toothache ever since I told him this room was dry. Excuse me a second, Court. I always propose a toast before I take a drink up here. Here's to Miss Alix Crown, the finest girl in the U. S. A., and the best boss a man ever had. Course I've never said that in a saloon, but up here it's different,--and kind of sacred."

"I usually make a wry face when I drink it neat like this," said Courtney.

"You'll like her just as well as I do when you get to know her, boy.

I've known her since she was a little kid,--long before she was sent abroad,--and she's the salt of the earth. That's one thing on which Doc and Hatch and me always agree. We differ on most everything else, but--well, as I was saying, you wait till you get to know her."

He tossed off the whiskey in one prodigious gulp, smacked his lips, and then stood watching his guest drink his.

Tears came into Courtney's eyes as he drained the last drop of the fiery liquid. A shudder distorted his face.

"Pretty hot stuff, eh?" observed Charlie sympathetically.

Courtney's reply was a nod of the head, speech being denied him.