Vaughan’s eyes searched the car in vain. “I guess Mr. Carleton’s up ahead,” he returned, “probably in the smoker with Cummings.”
Jack Carleton frowned. “Cummings?” he queried, “which Cummings? Jim?”
“Yes, Jim,” Vaughan assented, “why? Know him?”
Carleton nodded. “Yes, I know him, all right.” From his tone it would have been possible to draw the inference that his opinion of Cummings was scarcely favorable. But when, after a pause, he turned again to his friend, it was not of Cummings, but of Henry Carleton that he spoke. “And how’s Henry been standing it?” he asked. “I’ve hardly heard anything, you see, for practically three years now. I’m away behind the times.”
“Why,” Vaughan answered, “he’s a bigger man than ever, Jack. I guess I’m pretty well posted on him. Being on the paper, you know, you pick up a lot. He’s a power on the Street now, and he’s been making big strides in politics, besides. Some folks think he’s right in line for the vacancy in the United States senatorship. And I’m not sure but what it’s so, too. Then he’s doing more for charity now than he used to. He gave five thousand at one crack the other day to something or other—a musical conservatory, I think it was. And he does a lot here at Eversley. The people out this way think he’s just about right. Gave a thousand last month to the Eversley library, they say. Oh, I tell you it’s good to see a man on the crest of the wave who still has an eye for the poor devils down in the hollow;” he paused for a moment, then added, with a smile, “of whom I have the honor to be one, Jack. You know I haven’t made more than a million out of reporting. It’s funny, but journalists don’t seem to get appreciated in the salary line. But then, I oughtn’t to complain. I’ve made a living, and kept out of debt, and if I hadn’t had the folks down home to look after, I might have had a little put by, too. I’m not discouraged, either. I still consider it a privilege to be alive, and not to be kicked.
“But I was going to tell you about Mr. Carleton, and what he’s going to do for me. I’ve written a novel that I’m trying to get published, and he’s going to help me. I don’t mean, of course, that such things don’t go strictly on their merits, but still, even then, a friend at court doesn’t do any harm. I’ve seen a lot of it, or I wouldn’t talk that way. There’s an inside story, I’ve come to believe, and an inside track, in everything, even in art, where of all places there shouldn’t be. Not always, of course, but, I believe, oftener than you’d think. And Mr. Carleton’s surprisingly well known, everywhere. I’ve been amazed at it. I can’t for the life of me see how he manages to get the time for all his different interests, but he does it somehow, and what’s more remarkable still, he contrives to do everything well. His last bit of literary criticism in Cosmopolis was really excellently done. It’s been well spoken of everywhere. So now that he’s going to turn to and help, I’m immensely encouraged.”
For a moment or two Carleton sat silent, as if perplexed. Then, “But why on earth,” he asked, “is Henry taking all this sudden interest in you?”
With a laugh of enjoyment, Vaughan leaned forward. “I knew you’d ask that, Jack,” he said triumphantly. “That’s what I was leading up to. He’s interested in me because—there’s a very good chance that some day he’s going to have the delightful pleasure of welcoming me as his son-in-law.”
For an instant Carleton stared at him; then puckered his lips in a whistle of amazement. “The devil you say,” he ejaculated, and then, after a moment, as if he could think of nothing that would better do justice to the situation, he repeated, with even greater emphasis, “The devil you say.”
Vaughan sat silently enjoying his surprise; then, as his friend did not speak again, he said, a little anxiously, “I hope you’re pleased, Jack.”