It was when he took off his overshoes, however, that Mr. Opp and Nick exchanged looks of despair. They had a signal code which they habitually employed when storms swept the office, but in a calm like this they were powerless.
“Mighty sorry to hear about that uprisin’ in Guatemala,” said Mr. Tucker, who took a vivid interest in foreign affairs, but remained quite neutral about questions at home.
Mr. Opp moved about the office [p144] restlessly, knowing from experience that to sit down in the presence of Mr. Tucker was fatal. The only chance of escape lay in motion. He sharpened his pencils, straightened his desk, and tied up two bundles of papers while Mr. Tucker’s address on the probable future of the Central American republics continued. Then Mr. Opp was driven to extreme measures. He sent himself a telegram. This ruse was occasionally resorted to, to free the office from unwelcome visitors without offending them, and served incidentally to produce an effect which was not unpleasant to the editor.
Scribbling a message on a telegraph-blank procured for the purpose from Mr. Gallop, Mr. Opp handed it secretly to Nick, who in turn vanished out of the back door only to reappear at the front. Then the editor, with much ostentation, opened the envelop, and, after reading the contents, declared that he had business that would require immediate action. Would Mr. Tucker excuse him? If so, Nick would hold his coat.
[p145]
“But,” protested Mr. Tucker, resisting the effort to force him into his overcoat, “I want to talk over this oil business. We don’t want to take any risks with those fellows. As I was a-saying to Mr. Hager—”
“Yes,” said Mr. Opp, taking his own hat from a nail, and apparently in great haste, “I know, of course. You are exactly right about it. We’ll just talk it over as we go up-street,” and linking his arm through Mr. Tucker’s, he steered him up the muddy channel of Main Street, and safely into the harbor of Our Hotel, where he anchored him breathless, but satisfied.
Having thus disposed, to the best of his ability, of his business for the week, Mr. Opp turned his attention to his yet more arduous domestic affairs. The menu for the guest’s dinner had weighed rather heavily upon him all day, for he had never before entertained in his own home. His heart had been set on turkey; but as that was out of the question, he compromised on a goose, [p146] adhering tenaciously to the cranberry sauce.
It was easier to decide on the goose than it was to procure it, and some time was consumed in the search. Mr. Opp brought all his mental powers to bear on the subject, and attacked the problem with a zeal that merited success.
When he reached home at noon with his arm full of bundles, Aunt Tish met him with lamentations.
“Dey ain’t but one clean table-cloth, an’ hit’s got a hole in hit, an’ I can’t find no sheets to put on de company baid, an’ dere ain’t three cups an’ saucers in de house what belongs to theyselves. I shorely doan know what you thinkin’ ’bout, Mr. D., to go an’ ast company fer. We-all never does hab company. An’ Miss Kippy she be’n habin’ a sort er spell, too, cryin’ to herself, an’ won’t tell me whut’s de matter.”