Cummings nodded with alacrity. He was a man between thirty and thirty-five, tall and heavily built. His face, while rather of the bulldog type, yet to the eye of the careful observer seemed to disclose a certain weakness under the outward show of strength. His complexion was of a vivid red, plentifully ornamented with those souvenirs which come at length as badges of distinction to those who have had the perseverance to drink hard and steadily over a long enough term of years. His hair was very black and very curly; his tie perfectly matched his complexion; and his clothes, though of excellent make and cut, yet seemed a little obtrusive as well, as if the effort at gentility had been somehow overdone. Possibly several small trifles in his apparel—the conspicuously high polish on his shoes, the violet-bordered corner of the immaculate handkerchief, just visible above the breast pocket of his coat, the pair of very new tan gloves that he carried in his left hand—all proclaimed something of the inner man; a man not lacking in a certain force and aggressiveness, even in a kind of blustering self-assertion and desire for recognition, yet one who still realized with vague discomfort, that there was something wrong about him. Jim Cummings was far from being a fool. He was well-versed in the ways of the city; had “been around,” had “seen life;” was altogether a pretty shrewd and capable young man. And yet—spite of all—there was still a mysterious something somewhere lacking. To save his soul, he could not have told what it was. Perhaps Henry Carleton could.
“What do I say?” he echoed. “Sure, Mr. Carleton; suit me fine. Just as cheap to sit down as to stand, you know. Sure, let’s get along.”
In thus voicing his delight, it chanced that he spoke the truth, as sometimes, indeed, he was wont to do. Merely to be seen alone with Henry Carleton, in what would doubtless have been his phrase, “meant a lot” to him. And to have an hour’s ride with this versatile man of affairs, who had made a great name for himself in “straight” business, in the stock market, and in politics; who was possessed of “inside information”; who, if he chose, could give a friend a “straight tip”; and who had now been kind enough again to ask him out to spend the night, as on two or three memorable occasions he had done before; why, this was a chance that might well “mean a lot” to him in more senses than one.
Arthur Vaughan, no great admirer of Cummings, appeared, as indeed he was, equally well pleased at Henry Carleton’s words. “Yes, indeed,” he assented cordially, “don’t run the risk of missing a seat, Mr. Carleton. I remember Jack’s habits of old. You go right along, and I’ll wait here for him.”
Forthwith the two men took their departure, and Vaughan, waiting until only a scant half minute remained, was just on the point of leaving his post, when he espied Carleton threading his way hastily through the crowd. With only the briefest of greetings, they swung aboard the rear car, by good fortune found the one remaining vacant seat, and then Vaughan turned and slowly surveyed his friend from head to foot. At once he gave a quick smile of satisfaction. “Well, Jack,” he said, “you are looking fit. I don’t think you ever looked better in your life.”
“Oh, pretty fair, thanks,” Carleton answered, but his appearance, indeed, far more than bore out his words. He had regained and increased the physical vigor of his college days. He was broader, thicker, more solidly built, with an impression of reserve strength which he had lacked before. Nor did the change stop there. In face and feature, in his manner, in his whole bearing, there had come a change, and a change, too, in every way for the better. In his expression, the old uncertainty of purpose had given place to a look of determined resolve; in his manner there was a new alertness, a new interest; from his eyes and mouth a certain indescribable something had vanished, leaving them pleasantly frank and wholesome.
With a pleased laugh, Vaughan looked down at his friend’s big brown hand, and placed his own, white and slender, beside it. “I guess,” he said, “if it came to a fight, Jack, you could probably manage to lick me.”
Carleton smiled, and with equal interest returned Vaughan’s gaze. To him, Vaughan appeared scarcely to have changed at all. About him there was something of the man who is given to habitual overwork, yet otherwise, in his rather delicate way, he looked healthy and vigorous, and his face itself was still as pleasant and as kindly as of old. Carleton shook his head. “I don’t think there will be any fight, Arthur,” he said, “my fighting days are over. I’ve learned that much since I went away. I’ve come to believe that they don’t pay—fights of any kind.”
Vaughan nodded, quick to take his meaning. “Good,” he answered, “I’m mighty glad to hear it, Jack.”
Carleton’s glance had been roaming up and down the aisle. “By the way,” he said, “where’s the rest of our merry party? Where’s my respected uncle? And wasn’t there somebody else he was going to bring out with him?”