On the Saturday which was to be his last in town for some weeks to come, Morton decided to lunch at his club before leaving for Tarrytown. On the way he stopped his brougham at a gunsmith’s to purchase a rifle and ammunition for his hunting trip. Was it fate or did a mischievous fairy plan it?
It was a lovely day, one of those days on which in certain places of the earth, far from the madding crowd, fairies would come out of their secret places and dance in the green glades of the cool forest. New York’s cañons of streets were blue and gold under the gracious sunlit skies. Surely one of those lively sprites must have mistaken the city in its shining beauty for a new kind of forest; for of a certainty he was there. He must have skipped in past the yawning policeman at the corner, heedless of the noise and the crowds, and careless of the consequences. Seeing Morton in his carriage he must have whispered to him to stop at the gunsmith’s shop and go inside and take his time. And this same little fellow must have arranged it that Michael Sweeney, the best judge in the city of a damascened barrel, with the finest touch for adjusting the trigger, should just then be in the shop to wait on customers. For Michael, withal his watery eyes, could weigh powder with the skill of an assayer and discourse of guns as though they were his beloved children. Morton forgot where he was and who he was, so entranced was he. All he felt was that he was going away for a vacation—he was putting work away and going to play! The fairy had certainly enchanted him.
Outside on the avenue the horses in the brougham stamped in nervous impatience, switching their short tails in vain efforts to keep the flies away; the old coachman on the box had grown tired of flicking his whip and had dozed off in the warm shade. And all the time Morton was under Michael’s spell. Then the fairy, who had timed it well, touched the weight of the old clock in the corner and started so loud a whirr that Mike was disconcerted. The asthmatic gong gave a hoarse ding-dong—it was one o’clock!
Immediately Morton realized that he was to get the 2.30 train and that he had had no luncheon. He made for the exit hurriedly, giving at the same time brusque instructions to Michael to bring his purchases to the carriage.
Michael had wrapped everything very carefully, as was his custom, using the brown paper and string which the famous establishment always took care should be of the best, and hurried out in obedience to Morton’s instructions. Now what followed proves conclusively that there was a fairy or a leprechaun, as Michael would have called him, in New York that afternoon. For Michael had not taken two steps beyond his door, when the string broke and the contents of the brown paper parcel—hooks, lines and sinkers—were scattered, like the buttermilk from the pitcher of the fair Kitty of Coleraine, all over the place. Sweeney, the impeccable, looked aghast and could but stare at the articles rolling and sliding in every direction.
Morton was on the point of stepping into his carriage, but hearing the commotion he stopped and turned round. And here is where the fine Italian hand of the fairy came in. For now Morton also made a discovery.
CHAPTER XXVII
AS this Saturday was to be the last of the half-holidays of the summer, Margaret and Helène were devoting it to replenishing their wardrobes for the coming autumn. Monday would be “Fall Opening” day, with its resumption of longer working hours, and no other opportunity would be given them for this most necessary preparation for the winter.