But their laughter broke the tension, and while he shook hands around, thinking what difficulties must of necessity have been met in this gracious display of cordiality, Moses, the negro butler from the Wallifarro household, appeared from the kitchen door, bearing a tray of cocktails.
It was not until after two keenly effervescent hours of talk, laughter and dining, when the cigars had been lighted, that Prince came to his feet.
"Gentlemen," he said, "I am not going to pledge the man who is both our host and guest of honour, because I prefer to propose a sentiment we can all drink, standing, including himself—I give you the success of his gallant experiment—the Boy—Boone Wellver—'A toast to the native-born!'"
They rose amid the sound of chairs scraping back, and once more McCalloway felt the contraction of his throat and the dimness in his eyes.
"Gentlemen," he stammered, "I am grateful.... I think the boy is going to be an American—not only a hillsman—not even only a Kentuckian or a Southerner—though God knows either would be a proud enough title—but an American who blends and fuses these fine elements. That, at all events, is my hope and effort."
He sat down hurriedly—and yet in other days he had spoken with polished ease at tables where distinguished men and women were his fellow diners—and it was then that Tom Wallifarro rose.
"This was not to be a formal affair of set speeches," he announced in a conversational tone, "but there is one more sentiment without which we would rise leaving the essential thing unsaid. Some one has called these mountain folk our 'contemporary ancestors'—men of the past living in our day. This lad is, in that sense, of an older age. When he goes into the world, he will need such advisors of the newer age as he has had here in Mr. McCalloway—or at least pale imitations of Mr. McCalloway, whose place no one can fill. We are here this evening for two pleasant purposes. To dine with our friend, who could not come to us, and to found an informal order. The Boone who actually lived two centuries ago was the godfather of Kentucky.
"Gentlemen, I give you the order of our own founding tonight: The Godfathers of Boone."
It was of course by coincidence, only, that the climax of that evening's gathering should have been capped as it was. Probability would have brought the last guests, whom no one there had expected, at any other time, but perhaps the threads of destiny do not after all run haphazard. Possibly it could only be into such a fantastic pattern that they could ever have been woven.
At all events it was that night they came: the two short men, with narrow eyes, set in swarthy Oriental faces—such as those hills had not before seen.