MR. JOSEPH SIKES INTERVENES
Now, while Mr. Joseph Sikes was one of the first citizens of Rumley, a good Republican, and a man whose opinions were considered if not always respected, he had no social position, using the term in its present accepted sense. In simple, he was not by way of knowing the “best” people. There had been a time when Joe Sikes was a figure in the social life of Rumley, but that was in the days when “society” functioned, so to speak, in the corner grocery, or on the porch of the toll-gate, or at K. of P. Hall. Conditions in Rumley had changed, but old Joe hadn’t. He was still a “feed store” man, fairly prosperous, blatantly independent, and on speaking terms with “fashion” only in connection with business or politics.
The day was past in Rumley when Joe Sikes could stroll up to anybody’s house, night or day, walk in without knocking, and feel at home with his friends. There were eight or ten thousand people in Rumley now and there was a distinct though somewhat heterogeneous element known to some as the “smart set” and to others as the “stuck-ups.” They were the people whose names and activities filled the society columns of the Rumley Daily Despatch.
To them, old Joe Sikes was a “character.” He knew Banker Lansing, and Banker Koontzwiler, and the President of the Excelsior Woodenware Works, and others of their ilk, but he did not know their wives or their daughters. Mr. Link, on the other hand, had a very wide acquaintance with the “newer rich,” as he learnedly called them in placating Mr. Sikes on occasion. He had buried a lot of them, for one thing.
Mr. Sikes was troubled. Not once but half a score of times in the week following his first glimpse of “yaller-headed” Mrs. Flame, he had seen her with Oliver October. She wasn’t, of course, sitting in Oliver’s lap on any of these occasions, but—well, it is enough to say that Mr. Sikes was sorely troubled. He saw Oliver going straight to his doom.
With Jane’s departure for New York he lost all hope.
He had lectured Oliver severely, and, to his grief and astonishment, was laughed at for his pains. So he went to Serepta Grimes.
He rang the Baxter doorbell—and instantly wondered why he had done so. It seemed like a confession of weakness on his part. He sat down on the veranda and waited. It was late in the afternoon of a hot July day, well along toward the end of the month. He sniffed the sultry air, gazed frowningly at the western sky where clouds were gathering in the black pregnancy of storm, and chewed hard on the macerated stub of an unlighted cigar.
Mrs. Grimes came to the door.
“Oh, it’s you, is it? I thought maybe it was Marmaduke Smith back with another telegram.”
“Another what?” demanded Mr. Sikes, with interest.
“He’s brought two up on his bicycle since four o’clock, and he said maybe there’d be more. Two telegrams for Oliver.”
“Why didn’t he take ’em to the store, the little fool? Oliver may have to ketch the six o’clock train. What’s in ’em?”
“How should I know? I don’t open his letters or telegrams.”
“Well, you’d ought to. Ten chances to one they’re from Ollie, asking for help or money or—Where is Oliver, if he ain’t at the store?”
“He’s out automobile riding with Mr. Lansing’s daughter.”
“Oh; he is, is he?” snapped Mr. Sikes, getting up. “I might have knowed it. Darn his eyes, he’s getting worse and worse every day. If I’ve warned that boy once about light women, I’ve done it a hundred times. He’s got to—”
“She’s letting it come in dark again,” said Mrs. Grimes calmly.
“Letting it what?”
“Come in dark. Her hair, I mean. She wouldn’t be any more of a blonde than you are, Joe Sikes, if she’d quit bleaching her hair, or hennering it, or whatever it is they do. Like Saul Higbee’s daughter Kate—you remember her, don’t you? Turned blonde over night, and said God had performed a miracle.”
“You mean to say this here Lansing woman ain’t a real blonde?” exclaimed Mr. Sikes, sitting down again.
“You heard what I said, didn’t you?”
“I don’t know whether to believe you or my own eyes.”
“Looks as if we’d get the storm before dark, doesn’t it?” said Mrs. Grimes, sweeping the cloud banks with a casual eye.
Mr. Sikes appeared to be thinking. After a long pause he said: “I guess maybe you’re insinuatin’ that I better be moving along towards home if I don’t want to get caught in it.”
“You can sit here as long as you like, Joe,” said she. “And you can stay to dinner, too, if you feel like it,” she added, her conscience smiting her suddenly.
“Have you swept the porch to-day, Serepty?” he inquired, after another pause.
“Certainly. Why?”
“Because I never seem to come up here and sit down on it but what either you or Lizzie Meggs rush out and begin sweeping all around me. No matter what time of day I come, I always have to get out of the way of one of you women sweepin’.”
“Well, you won’t have to to-day,” said she good-naturedly. “So set still.”
“I guess I’ll wait for Oliver to come home,” said he guiltily. “I want to see what’s in them telegrams. You—you’re sure about that woman having dark hair?”
“Absolutely.”
“Well, that’s a comfort. I—Hello! Here comes Oliver now—but, by thunder, he’s got that yaller-haired woman with him,” he concluded in dismay. “No, thank you, Serepty—I can’t stay for supper. I—I—” He got up quickly, pulled his straw hat down low over his eyes, and started hurriedly down the walk.
“Hello, Uncle Joe,” called out Oliver, swinging the car into the drive. “Wait a minute and I’ll give you a lift home. I’m going back just as soon as I’ve changed my collar and—”
“There’s a lot of telegrams here from your father,” said Joseph gruffly. He halted half way down the walk and stared intently at Mrs. Flame.
Oliver brought the car to a stop in front of the porch. “I’ll be out in a couple of minutes, Sylvia,” he said as he slid out from behind the wheel. “Hey, Uncle Joe! Come here, please. I want to introduce you to the lady you’ve been raising such a rumpus about. She swears she won’t scratch your eyes out or pull your hair. You needn’t look so scared. She’s perfectly harmless. Take my word for it. I’ve had experience with fair women, as you well know, and I don’t find ’em any more devilish than dark women.”
Mr. Sikes was scandalized. He turned purple in the face—not with anger but with mortification. He told Mr. Link afterwards that he felt like a fool, and Mr. Link brought a lot of wrath down upon himself by remarking that it must have been wonderful for him to feel natural for once in his life.
He approached the dazzling, radiant Mrs. Flame reluctantly, stammering something about “horse play” and “poppycock.”
“Do you think there is going to be a storm, Mr. Sikes?” she inquired, as Oliver, grinning maliciously, dashed up the steps and followed Mrs. Grimes into the house.
Mr. Sikes did not answer at once. He was squinting narrowly at Mrs. Flame’s back hair—or more particularly at a spot just below the left ear.
“By jiminy,” he muttered softly, “she’s right.” Then recovering himself, he said: “Eh?”
“Mr. Baxter is a great tease, isn’t he?” she substituted.
“He’s a darned nuisance,” said Mr. Sikes sharply. “Makes me tired.” Suddenly it occurred to him that here was a chance not to be overlooked, so he added very firmly: “I pity the woman that gets him for a husband.”
“You do? Why, I should say that the woman who gets him is about the luckiest person in the world.”
He looked at her piercingly. “How long did you say you’ve knowed him?” he inquired.
“I didn’t say—but there’s no harm in telling you, I suppose.” She began counting on her fingers. “Nine days, Mr. Sikes.”
“It takes him just about that long,” was his cryptic rejoinder.
She laughed merrily. “Do they fall for him as easily as all that?”
“The married ones do,” said he darkly and daringly.
“Oh, that lets me out,” she said. “You see, I’m not married, Mr. Sikes.”
“Excuse me, I thought he said Missus,” floundered Mr. Sikes, a trifle dashed.
“He did. I am Mrs. Flame.”
“Er—ahem! Oh, I see. Widow.”
“In a detached sort of way.”
This was beyond Mr. Sikes. “In the war, I suppose.”
“Do I look like a woman who lost a husband in the war, Mr. Sikes?”
“You don’t look like you’d lost one anywhere,” said he, beginning to feel a trifle nettled. “You certainly don’t look like a widow to me.”
“What do I look like to you?” she inquired amiably.
“You look as if it wouldn’t distress you very much if I was to ask how long he’s been dead,” was his unexpected reply.
She flushed. “A very good answer to a very stupid question,” said she. “He isn’t dead. He is very much alive. He didn’t go to the war. I am one of those horrible, unspeakable things known as a grass widow, Mr. Sikes.”
“As I was saying,” he began after he had taken as much as thirty seconds to recover from the shock of this disclosure, “it wouldn’t surprise me if we got the storm inside of ten or fifteen minutes. I guess I’ll be moving along. Glad to have met you, Mrs.—”
“Do wait,” she cried. “Oliver won’t be a minute. We’ll take you wherever you wish to go, Mr. Sikes.”
“No, I won’t wait,” said he firmly. “But before I go, I want to—er—as I was saying, it ain’t any of my business—you understand that, don’t you?—er—I was just thinking it’s only fair to tell you that Oliver is—er—what you might call engaged, Mrs. Flame. Generally speaking, I mean.”
“I see,” said she brightly. “And you want to warn me not to make a fool of myself, is that it? It’s awfully kind of you.”
Mr. Sikes was a poor dissembler. “Well, I was thinking more about Oliver making a fool of himself,” said he bluntly.
“But why, Mr. Sikes, do you keep all this a secret from him?” she cried, biting her lip to keep from laughing. “I think you ought to tell him he is engaged and not keep the poor boy in suspense. He hasn’t the remotest inkling of it.”
“Don’t you fool yourself,” said he stoutly.
“And who is the fortunate young lady?”
“We ain’t quite ready to make it public yet,” said Mr. Sikes, casting a sharp look toward the house and cocking his ear for sounds of Oliver’s footsteps on the stairs. “Which reminds me,” he went on hurriedly, lowering his voice, “I guess you’d better not mention it to him.”
“I sha’n’t, Mr. Sikes, if it will make you feel any more comfortable. But at least you can tell me this. Does the young lady know she is engaged?”
He had got in deeper than he intended.
“Did I say she was young?” he demanded craftily, trying to recall just how far he had already committed himself. “No, siree! You bet I didn’t. I’m too smart for that.”
“But does she know she is engaged?” persisted this disconcerting young woman.
“Not what you would call exactly,” he confessed, lamely.
“I see. You are keeping it a secret from both of them.”
He heard Oliver in the hall, speaking to Mrs. Grimes. It was no time to choose words, so he blurted out:
“Yes, and you’ll do me an everlastin’ favor, ma’am, if you’ll keep it secret from him for a week or two. He’s awfully touchy. It might spoil everything if he got wind of it.”
“Is she a blonde or a brunette?”
This was his chance. “It’s purty hard to tell these days,” he said, fastening his gaze on her hair in a most disconcerting manner.
She laughed outright, joyously, frankly. Oliver, coming out of the house at this juncture, paused in amazement at the top of the steps.
“See here, Uncle Joe, you quit your flirting,” he cried. “Next thing you know you’ll have a breach of promise suit on your hands.”
“Don’t get fresh!” exclaimed Mr. Sikes in some exasperation. Then, to cover his confusion: “What’s the news from your pa, Oliver? What’s he say in them telegrams?”
“They’re not from father, Uncle Joe,” said the young man, softening. “Jump in behind there. I’ll run you uptown before the storm.”
“I’m not going uptown,” said Mr. Sikes obstinately. “I’m stayin’ here for supper with Serepta. I just remembered it,” he went on, with a guilty, apologetic look at Mrs. Flame. “Oh, before I forget it, Oliver, is there anything serious in them telegrams?”
“Yes, sir! It certainly begins to look serious. I had six at the store this morning, and a dozen telephone calls besides. That’s one reason why I took the afternoon off. Nearly every man on the County Central Committee has telephoned or telegraphed me to-day. The pressure is getting pretty strong, Uncle Joe, and I’m beginning to weaken.”
“Pressure? Weaken? What the devil are you talking about now?” demanded Mr. Sikes, placing one foot on the running-board and grasping the door-handle.
“They want me to make the race for State Senator against Uncle Horace,” said Oliver. “Hop in! I’m going to start.” Then, as the old man scrambled hurriedly into the car, he added: “And I’ve about reached the conclusion to go out and skin Uncle Horace alive.”
“My God!” gasped Mr. Sikes, leaning forward and gripping the back of the front seat with both hands. “You—you don’t mean to tell me you’re going to run for office, Oliver October Baxter!”
“Hang onto your hat, Uncle Joe! I’m going to let her out a little,” sang out Oliver, and “let her out” he did as the car swept out of the driveway into the street.
Mr. Sikes was standing up in the tonneau, grasping the forward seat with one hand, and his hat with the other. He leaned over and shouted in Oliver’s ear.
“You can’t do it! You mustn’t do it! It’s against my wishes, and your pa’s, and—why, how many times have I told you what the gypsy said about—Say! Slow down a little, confound you! Have you told Serepty Grimes about this fool notion of yours?”
“I have. And she’s tickled to death. She says to go ahead and skin him alive. That’s the kind of a hairpin she is!”
Mr. Sikes clung rigidly to the back of the seat for a couple of hundred yards, speechless with a combination of concern and exasperation. Then he sank down into the side chair and bellowed:
“I’m through! I’m done! There’s no use trying to save you—not a damn bit of use. Go ahead and run! I’m through! Stick your neck right into it if you want to. I’ve done my best—I’ve done all a man could do. I no sooner see you safely out of a scrape with a light woman than you start hell-bent for the halls of state. You—”
“Don’t you worry, Uncle Joe,” called out Oliver cheerily. “Uncle Horace will probably snow me under a mile deep.”
Mr. Sikes was silent for a few moments, contemplating this calamity. Suddenly he banged the back of the seat with his clenched fist.
“Not on your life!” he roared. “We’ll skin him alive. You’ll carry every darned precinct in the county. He won’t—”
“Hang onto your hat, Uncle Joe!”
“My what? Good Lord! I forgot—but never mind! Don’t go back after it! It’s an old one anyhow. Yes, sir; we’ll peel the hide off of old Gooch next November—every inch of it. Let me out at the Hubbard House, Oliver. Silas Link drops in there about this time every evening to cool off under the electric fans. Does he know about this?”
“I don’t think he does,” said Oliver, drawing up to the curb in front of the hotel.
“Good!” exclaimed Mr. Sikes, with satisfaction. He clambered out of the car. “Good day, ma’am. I hope you don’t get wet.” He eyed her hair narrowly, even apprehensively. “Hurry along, Oliver. You mustn’t keep her out in the rain.”
“Good-by, Mr. Sikes. Thank you for warning me,” said Mrs. Flame, favoring him with a smile so enchanting that instead of blurting out the latest news to Mr. Link when he encountered him in the lobby of the hotel a few moments later, he gloomily announced that a fellow as young as Oliver didn’t have a ghost of a chance.