"Jim turns on him with one stiff look of disgust and says: 'What do you think you're doin', Sands? Knockin' down fares in the observation-car? Put up that curling iron of yours and grab hold of a hind leg, will you?' "It sure was a scandalous job, but we got the thing out and heaved it across the ditch and went. Jim didn't say but one thing more, right then. Just before we all scattered, he says: 'Say, if you was me, I don't think I'd say anything about this at Del Sur, would you?" "You can see from that, Jim was some rattled himself, and it wasn't hardly like him. "Well, nobody said anything of this when we run into Del Sur and finished 'way late. Everybody likes Jim, and especially it seems that old Renza at the eating-place likes him. "So when Jim and his fireman goes into Renza's for supper, before ever they'd took time to wash up, Jim's eyes are narrow slits and he's got a kind of crouchin' gait, like a panther prowlin' for a spring. "I took a seat far up at the nearest end of the counter. Jim drops on a stool and wraps his long legs around the stem of it 'way down toward the kitchen end of the counter. "Renza waltzes in, pleasant as lizards in the sun, and slaps his hand down on Jim's shoulder, friendly and familiar as usual. He always makes it. a point to take Jim's order himself, if he's around, you see. "The minute he touches him, Jim's back hunches up like he's just been side-swiped, and Renza backs away a step or two and says: "Wacha eatin' tonight, Jim?" "What have you got?' says Jim through his teeth. "We got roas' beef, roas' veal, veal potpie, ve "Whoa!' says Jim. "But Renza, havin' a swift start that way, sort of couldn't stop, and he run by the board a little piece before Jim could rightly shut him off. "Veal loaf, calves' brai-' he was runnin' on. "Whoa!" says Jim, slappin' his open hand down on the counter till things rattled 'way up where I'm settin'. "You get me two boxes of sardines in mustard, with a squirt or two of tobasco sauce,' says Jim. 'Stun out a chunk of sweitzer cheese with one of them long loaves of rye bread, and head it in quick. And I want coffee. Black!' 66 'Sav, what's the matter of Jim? Them fellows been scrappin' on the engine again, comin' down?' "No,' I says. Not that I know of. I guess Jim just happened to be feelin' that he wanted a change.' "Well, he's sure got it in that mess he's nibblin' at!' says Renza, lookin' disgusted like before he made a wide detour around Jim's end and hid-out again in the kitchen." Mahalie stirred, quickly alert at the sound of Sunny Acre's half-stifled chuckling. "See anything of "Two,' now?" he. asked, with a note of greater concern. "He's sure fixed us right this trip." "Yes," said Hutton as they arose and made toward the engine. "She's just headin' across the flats down there and comin' some." "I'm hungry enough to eat a sixpound roast at one sitting," remarked Mahalie, scanning his watch. "Well," remarked Sunny, when he had mounted through the gangway and swung the door open for a reassuring look at his banked fire, "we got roas' beef, roas' veal, calves' br- "` "Hutton," said Mahalie, leaning out of the cab-window and smiling down at the brakeman, while his laughing eyes narrowed to mere sparkling slits, "you're a rank traitor!" Sauce for the Goose BY E. BURROWES. Silvestre, the editor of one of the biggest popular weekly journals, looked about him in despair. Never had he experienced such difficulty in getting the right stuff to fill his extra large weekly number, due to be published at the end of August, and he was pondering the matter with an irritable frown on his face when the door swung open and Hartley, the best journalist on his staff, came in. They were old comrades, these two school fellows, and college mates as well, and now both were cutting their way up the difficult ladder of success in Fleet street. "Hello, Hartley! Got any ideas, or has this torrid heat soaked them out of you?" "Pretty well, old chap. What's worrying you?" "A couple of columns to fill up with, something new, something to attract the jaded appetite of the holiday readers. I wish I say, Hartley, I've got it. Look here!" Silvestre turned over a pile of daily papers at his elbow, extracted one sheet and thrust it over to the journalist, his. finger on a paragraph in the society column. "Read that." Hartley read: "Miss Anastatia B. Sympkins has arrived at Claridge's Hotel from Cowes, and leaves shortly for Scotland." "Well, what about her?" asked Hartley. "And who the dickens is Miss Anastatia B. Sympkins when she's at home?" "She's the daughter of some johnny who's made a corner in something or other-brick or mortar, or some useful thing like that, and, as I need scarcely tell you, she is an American. Now you know what a rage there has been lately in the papers for articles such as 'Should Peers Marry American-Dollar Princesses?' and so on." "Yes. One's pretty well fed up with them." "Exactly. But I propose an article on altogether novel lines. What do you say to 'An Article by a Peer Who Proposed to an American-Dollar Princess' ?" "He'd be rather a cad to write it, I imagine." Silvestre laughed. "You're chock full of ideals still, old fellow; but you'll have to swallow all that because you're going to write the article." "I? But I'm not, thank the powers, a peer!" "You can be one for the moment, as it were. Did I dream it, or did I hear you tell some one once that Basingstoke's a cousin of yours?" "He is. Not a relative to be proud of." "I suppose not, but he's a peer all the same. Where is he?" "What about yourself?" You're a cousin." "Yes, but on the distaff side, thank heaven." "I see. Well, I'd like you for the time being to pose as Lord Basingstoke, get to know this charming and possibly beautiful Miss Anastatia B. Sympkins, and there you are. I leave the rest to you and the article, and luck go with you." Hartley stared at the editor, then burst into a roar of laughter. "You're not serious, Sylvestre?" "But how the dickens am I to set about it? And how do you know that Miss What-d'you-call-her has any special predilection for the peerage?" "Because she's an American-dollar lady, my boy. And besides, look here!" He extracted from his desk an American newspaper, opened it, and spread it out before Hartley. The glaring headlines struck him in the eye, as it were: ANASTASIA ARMED FOR CONQUEST. WILL SHE GAIN THE STRAWBERRY LEAVES? DEPARTURE OF MISS SYMPKINS FOR EUROPE. Hartley uttered a disgusted exclamation. "What taste," he said with a shrug of his shoulders. "I suppose money has to pay-like everything else for its privileges. Ten to one she's as plain as a pikestaff, though the papers do, I see, laud her to the skies, and call her the beautiful heiress. When were heiresses ever anything else? Where and how do I begin, Sylvestre ?" "That I leave to you, also the ways and means. All I want is a good interview, something out of the common, mind you-good stuff-and you shan't regret it." There were not many preparations to make for his campaign-a few visiting cards, a neat but distinguished looking suit, and a taxi that one sunny afternoon deposited him at the door of the hotel where Miss Anastatia B. Sympkins was staying. * "I guess peers don't grow on hedges like brambleberries," murmured Anastatia to herself, as she passed through the hall, casting a quick glance over the few people-ordinary-looking folk -gathered there, and letting her eyes rest for the fraction of a second on a decidedly good looking young man who was standing reading a paper. She liked the look of his well-fitting grey suit, and the bluish mauve tie that seemed to match his eyes. She saw them when he raised them for an instant and looked straight at her. Anastatia felt the color rise to her And again she saw those blue eyes looking at her, as with deft fingers the young man disentangled her chain. "Thank you," said Anastatia, hurriedly. "I am very much obliged !" She paused for a moment. A taxi came purring to the door, and the longing look in her eyes gave Hartley his inspiration. "Miss Sympkins, here we are, two lonely folk thrown together by fate. Will you take pity on me further and come for a turn in the park? I know we've never been properly introduced, but I assure you I am quite a respectable person. It would be very kind of you to come." "I'd like to very much. I'm stranded here for a day or two because my friends in Scotland can't have me until the 18th. But perhaps you are going north, too? I am going to stay with some people I met in Cowes-the Strangways." "At Arrochar Lodge?" asked Hartley, eagerly. "Yes. You do know them, then?" "Yes, I know them; they happen to be cousins of mine," said Hartley, shortly. The Strangways! He set his teeth, his eyes on Anastatia's fresh loveliness. He could guess very well why the Strangways had asked her up, why they had made such friends with the young millionairess. Wasn't the Cecil, the eldest son, always looking for a rich wife? They were a scheming set of people, and he could read through their plans like a book, then— He was pulled up shortly by the memory of his own plans and schemes where Anastatia was concerned. He felt a hot color rise to his face. Anastatia. The very name was a caress. |