How far is it?
Five mile, sir.
With a groan Mr. Briggs arose, lifted his suit-case, and, walking to the platforms edge, cast an agitated glance up the dusty road.
Then he turned around and examined the single building in sightstation, water-tower, post-office and telegraph-office all in one, and incidentally the abode of the station-agent, whose duties included that of postmaster and operator.
Ill write a letter first, said Briggs. And this is what he wrote:
Rose-Cross P.O.,June 25, 1904.Dear Wayne: Do you remember that tract of land, adjoining your preserve, which you attempted to buy four years ago? It was held by a crank community, and they refused to sell, and made trouble for your patrols by dumping dye-stuffs and sawdust into the Ashton Creek.
Well, the community has broken up, the shops are in ruins, and there is nobody there now except that bankrupt poet, Guilford. I bought the mortgage for you, foreseeing a slump in that sort of art, and I expect to begin foreclosure proceedings and buy in the tract, which, as you will recollect, includes some fine game cover and the Ashton stream, where you wanted to establish a hatchery. This is a God-forsaken spot. Im on my way to the poets now. Shall I begin foreclosure proceedings and fire him? Wire me what to do.
Yours,Briggs.Wayne received this letter two days later. Preoccupied as he was in fitting out his yacht for commission, he wired briefly, Fire poet, and dismissed the matter from his mind.
The next day, grappling with the problem of Japanese stewards and the decadence of all sailormen, he received a telegram from Briggs:
Cant you manage to come up here?
Irritated, he telegraphed back:
Impossible. Why dont you arrange to fire poet? And Briggs replied: Cant fire poet. There are extenuating circumstances.
Did you say exterminating or extenuating? wired Wayne. I said extenuating, replied Briggs.
Then the following telegrams were exchanged in order:
(1)What are the extenuating circumstances?
Wayne.(2)Eight innocent children. Come up at once.
Briggs.(3)Boat in commission. Cant go. Why dont you fix things?
Wayne.(4)How?
Briggs.(5)(Dated New London.)What on earth is the matter with you? Are you going to fix things and join me at Bar Harbor or are you not?
Wayne.(6)As I dont know how you want me to fix things, I can not join you.
Briggs.(7)(Dated Portland, Maine.)Stuyvesant Briggs, what the devil is the matter with you? Its absolutely necessary that I have the Ashton stream for a hatchery, and you know it. What sort of a business man are you, anyhow? Of course I dont propose to treat that poet inhumanly. Arrange to bid in the tract, run up the price against your own bidding, and let the poet have a few thousand if he is hard put. Dont worry me any more; Im busy with a fool crew, and you are spoiling my cruise by not joining me.
Wayne.(8)He wont do it.
Briggs.(9)Who wont do what?
Wayne.(10)Poet refuses to discuss the matter.
Briggs.(11)Fire that poet. Youve spoiled my cruise with your telegrams.
Wayne.(12)(Marked Collect.)
Look here, George Wayne, dont drive me to desperation. You ought to come up and face the situation yourself. I cant fire a poet with eight helpless children, can I? And while Im about it, let me inform you that every time you telegraph me it costs me five dollars for a carrier to bring the despatch over from the station; and every time I telegraph you I am obliged to walk five miles to send it and five miles back again. Im mad all through, and my shoes are worn out, and Im tired. Besides, Im too busy to telegraph.
Briggs.(13)Do you expect me to stop my cruise and travel up to that hole on account of eight extenuating kids?
Wayne.(14)I do.
Briggs.(15)Are you mad?
Wayne.(16)Thoroughly. And extremely busy.
Briggs.(17)For the last time, Stuyve Briggs, are you going to bounce one defaulting poet and progeny, arrange to have survey and warnings posted, order timber and troughs for hatchery, engage extra patrolor are you not?
Wayne.(18)No.
Briggs.(19)(Received a day later by Mr. Wayne.)
Are you coming?
Briggs.(20)Im coming to punch your head.
Wayne.II
WHEN George Wayne arrived at Rose-Cross station, seaburnt, angry, and in excellent athletic condition, Briggs locked himself in the waiting-room and attempted to calm the newcomer from the window.
If youre going to pitch into me, George, he said, Im hanged if I come out, and you can go to Guilfords alone.
Come out of there, said Wayne dangerously.
It isnt because Im afraid of you, explained Briggs, but its merely that I dont choose to present either you or myself to a lot of pretty girls with the marks of conflict all over our eyes and noses.
At the words pretty girls Waynes battle-set features relaxed. He motioned to the Pullman porter to deposit his luggage on the empty platform; the melancholy bell-notes of the locomotive sounded, the train moved slowly forward.
Pretty girls? he repeated in a softer voice. Where are they staying? Of course, under the circumstances a personal encounter is superfluous. Where are they staying?
At Guilfords. I told you so in my telegrams, didnt I?
No, you didnt. You spoke only of a poet and his eight helpless children.
Well, those girls are the eight children, retorted Briggs sullenly, emerging from the station.
Do you mean to tell me
Yes, I do. Theyre his children, arent theyeven if they are girls, and pretty. He offered a mollifying hand; Wayne took it, shook it uncertainly, and fell into step beside his friend. Eight pretty girls, he repeated under his breath. What did you do, Stuyve?
What was I to do? inquired Briggs, nervously worrying his short blond mustache. When I arrived here I had made up my mind to fire the poet and arrange for the hatchery and patrol. The farther I walked through the dust of this accursed road, lugging my suit-case as you are doing now, the surer I was that Id get rid of the poet without mercy. But