The Turmoil Part 9

George turned to Mist' Jackson, who had been listening benevolently in the hallway. "Same he aw-ways say, Mist' Jackson--'I expec' she is!'

Ev'y day he try t' git me talk 'bout 'at lamiDAL statue, an' aw-ways, las' thing HE say, 'I expec' she is!' You know, Mist' Jackson, if he git well, 'at young man go' be pride o' the family, Mist' Jackson. Yes-suh, right now I pick 'im fo' firs' money!"

"Look out with all 'at money, George!" Jackson warned the enthusiast.

"White folks 'n 'is house know 'im heap longer'n you. You the on'y man bettin' on 'im!"

"I risk it!" cried George, merrily. "I put her all on now--ev'y cent!

'At boy's go' be flower o' the flock!"

This singular prophecy, founded somewhat recklessly upon grat.i.tude for the meaning of "lamiDAL," differed radically from another prediction concerning Bibbs, set forth for the benefit of a fair auditor some twenty minutes later.

Jim Sheridan, skirting the edges of the town with Mary Vertrees beside him, in his own swift machine, encountered the invalid upon the highroad. The two cars were going in opposite directions, and the occupants of Jim's had only a swaying glimpse of Bibbs sitting alone on the back seat--his white face startlingly white against cap and collar of black fur--but he flashed into recognition as Mary bowed to him.

Jim waved his left hand carelessly. "It's Bibbs, taking his const.i.tutional," he explained.

"Yes, I know," said Mary. "I bowed to him, too, though I've never met him. In fact, I've only seen him once--no, twice. I hope he won't think I'm very bold, bowing to him."

"I doubt if he noticed it," said honest Jim.

"Oh, no!" she cried.

"What's the trouble?"

"I'm almost sure people notice it when I bow to them."

"Oh, I see!" said Jim. "Of course they would ordinarily, but Bibbs is funny."

"Is he? How?" she asked. "He strikes me as anything but funny."

"Well, I'm his brother," Jim said, deprecatingly, "but I don't know what he's like, and, to tell the truth, I've never felt exactly like I WAS his brother, the way I do Roscoe. Bibbs never did seem more than half alive to me. Of course Roscoe and I are older, and when we were boys we were too big to play with him, but he never played anyway, with boys his own age. He'd rather just sit in the house and mope around by himself.

n.o.body could ever get him to DO anything; you can't get him to do anything now. He never had any LIFE in him; and honestly, if he is my brother, I must say I believe Bibbs Sheridan is the laziest man G.o.d ever made! Father put him in the machine-shop over at the Pump Works--best thing in the world for him--and he was just plain no account. It made him sick! If he'd had the right kind of energy--the kind father's got, for instance, or Roscoe, either--why, it wouldn't have made him sick.

And suppose it was either of them--yes, or me, either--do you think any of us would have stopped if we WERE sick? Not much! I hate to say it, but Bibbs Sheridan'll never amount to anything as long as he lives."

Mary looked thoughtful. "Is there any particular reason why he should?"

she asked.

"Good gracious!" he exclaimed. "You don't mean that, do you? Don't you believe in a man's knowing how to earn his salt, no matter how much money his father's got? Hasn't the business of this world got to be carried on by everybody in it? Are we going to lay back on what we've got and see other fellows get ahead of us? If we've got big things already, isn't it every man's business to go ahead and make 'em bigger?

Isn't it his duty? Don't we always want to get bigger and bigger?"

"Ye-es--I don't know. But I feel rather sorry for your brother. He looked so lonely--and sick."

"He's gettin' better every day," Jim said. "Dr. Gurney says so. There's nothing much the matter with him, really--it's nine-tenths imaginary.

'Nerves'! People that are willing to be busy don't have nervous diseases, because they don't have time to imagine 'em."

"You mean his trouble is really mental?"

"Oh, he's not a lunatic," said Jim. "He's just queer. Sometimes he'll say something right bright, but half the time what he says is 'way off the subject, or else there isn't any sense to it at all. For instance, the other day I heard him talkin' to one of the darkies in the hall. The darky asked him what time he wanted the car for his drive, and anybody else in the world would have just said what time they DID want it, and that would have been all there was to it; but here's what Bibbs says, and I heard him with my own ears. 'What time do I want the car?' he says. 'Well, now, that depends--that depends,' he says. He talks slow like that, you know. 'I'll tell you what time I want the car, George,'

he says, 'if you'll tell ME what you think of this statue!' That's exactly his words! Asked the darky what he thought of that Arab Edith and mother bought for the hall!"

Mary pondered upon this. "He might have been in fun, perhaps," she suggested.

"Askin' a darky what he thought of a piece of statuary--of a work of art! Where on earth would be the fun of that? No, you're just kind-hearted--and that's the way you OUGHT to be, of course--"

"Thank you, Mr. Sheridan!" she laughed.

"See here!" he cried. "Isn't there any way for us to get over this Mister and Miss thing? A month's got thirty-one days in it; I've managed to be with you a part of pretty near all the thirty-one, and I think you know how I feel by this time--"

She looked panic-stricken immediately. "Oh, no," she protested, quickly.

"No, I don't, and--"

"Yes, you do," he said, and his voice shook a little. "You couldn't help knowing."

"But I do!" she denied, hurriedly. "I do help knowing. I mean--Oh, wait!"

"What for? You do know how I feel, and you--well, you've certainly WANTED me to feel that way--or else pretended--"

"Now, now!" she lamented. "You're spoiling such a cheerful afternoon!"

"'Spoilin' it!'" He slowed down the car and turned his face to her squarely. "See here, Miss Vertrees, haven't you--"

"Stop! Stop the car a minute." And when he had complied she faced him as squarely as he evidently desired her to face him. "Listen. I don't want you to go on, to-day."

"Why not?" he asked, sharply.

"I don't know."

"You mean it's just a whim?"

"I don't know," she repeated. Her voice was low and troubled and honest, and she kept her clear eyes upon his.

"Will you tell me something?"

"Almost anything."

"Have you ever told any man you loved him?"

And at that, though she laughed, she looked a little contemptuous. "No,"

she said. "And I don't think I ever shall tell any man that--or ever know what it means. I'm in earnest, Mr. Sheridan."

"Then you--you've just been flirting with me!" Poor Jim looked both furious and crestfallen.

"Not one bit!" she cried. "Not one word! Not one syllable! I've meant every single thing!"

"I don't--"

"Of course you don't!" she said. "Now, Mr. Sheridan, I want you to start the car. Now! Thank you. Slowly, till I finish what I have to say. I have not flirted with you. I have deliberately courted you. One thing more, and then I want you to take me straight home, talking about the weather all the way. I said that I do not believe I shall ever 'care'

for any man, and that is true. I doubt the existence of the kind of 'caring' we hear about in poems and plays and novels. I think it must be just a kind of emotional TALK--most of it. At all events, I don't feel it. Now, we can go faster, please."

"Just where does that let me out?" he demanded. "How does that excuse you for--"