The victory, though brilliant, was not without its casualties. The goose, in its post-mortem flight, took its revenge, and the overturned cranberries sent a crimson stain across the white cloth, giving a sanguinary aspect to the scene.
When order was restored and Mr. Opp had once more taken his seat, the little lady in the blue dress, who had remained quiet during the recent conflict, suddenly raised her voice in joyous song.
“Now, Kippy,” warned Mr. Opp, putting a restraining hand on her arm, and looking at her appealingly. The little lady shrank back in her chair and her eyes filled as she clasped his hand tightly in both of hers.
“As I was remarking,” Mr. Opp went steadily on, trying to behave as if it were [p187] quite natural for him to eat with his left hand, “the real value of the underground product in this country has been but fairly made apparent, and now that you capitalists are coming in to take a hold, there’s no way of forming a idea of the ultimate result.”
Hinton, upon whom no phase of the situation had been lost, came valiantly to Mr. Opp’s rescue. He roused himself to follow his host’s lead in the conversation; he was apparently oblivious to the many irregularities of the dinner. In fact, it was one of the rare occasions upon which Hinton took the trouble to exert himself. Something in the dreary old room, with its brave attempt at cheer, in the half-witted little lady who was making such superhuman efforts to be good, and above all in the bombastic, egotistical, ignorant editor who was trying to keep up appearances against such heavy odds, touched the best and deepest that was in Hinton, and lifted him out of himself. Gradually he began to take the lead in the conversation. With great tact [p188] he relieved Mr. Opp of the necessity of entertaining, and gave him a chance to eat his dinner. He told stories so simple that even Miss Kippy loosened her hold on her brother’s hand to listen.
When the sunset of the dinner in the form of a pumpkin pie had disappeared, the gentlemen retired to the fire.
“Don’t you smoke?” asked Hinton, holding a match to his pipe.
“Why, yes,” said Mr. Opp, “I have smoked occasional. It’s amazing how it assists you in creating newspaper articles. One of the greatest editorials I ever turned out was when I had a cigar in my mouth.”
“Then why don’t you smoke?”
Mr. Opp glanced over his shoulders at Aunt Tish, who, with Miss Kippy’s doubtful assistance, was clearing the table.