Widow—“Well, perhaps you can tell me this: Have such clothes any right on our line?”
Q. M.—“Certainly not. They look terribly out of place, as the house is a home for young lady employees and charming widows like yourself.”
Now, this was more than the widow could stand, and, hanging up the receiver, she rushed back to us with many complaints of the Q. M.’s discourtesy.
“We’ll take it up with Culebra,” chorused the girls, whereupon I proceeded to pack my suitcase, thinking the time propitious for my departure. But, too late. The news of the flutter in the dovecote had already reached the ears of a certain vigilant person, whose business it was to report on and to adjust all matters of such weighty importance. This gentleman now appeared before us and gravely proceeded to question each one in turn. His manner was solemn and ponderous, as to almost make us fancy ourselves on the witness stand in a murder trial. Adelaide, the offending one, was questioned last, and, strange to say, culprit though she was, bore the inquisition with less embarrassment than any of the others, fortified, perhaps, by the knowledge of the steadfast affection of the husky Mr. Pettingill. At any rate, she came through the ordeal with much credit to herself, without adding any laurels to the brow of her inquisitor.
“Pending the verdict of Culebra,” he said pompously, as he finished his notes, “I would suggest that the gentleman cease his visits for a while.” He also suggested that the clothes be removed from the line. This was done immediately by Gwendoline, amidst the jeers of the bachelors next door. After these directions were given he stalked out with measured, judicial tread, and a sigh of relief went up as the door closed behind him.
At six o’clock that night I came away with a deep feeling of regret. As I was riding to the station I observed the disconsolate form of “Pet” seated upon the steps of his quarters, with his face buried in his hands, the setting sun forming a lustrous halo about his bowed head, while faintly on the evening air was wafted o’er him, unnoticed, the distant rattle of the knives and plates of the I. C. C. Hotel.
THE STORY OF VERE DE VERE.
E know not in our poor philosophy what hidden chords are touched by unseen hands.
More than a hundred years ago there lived in the Sunny South a handsome cavalier, who was noted for his riches, daring and cruelty. It is recorded that, whenever a man opposed him, he coolly ran him through with his broadsword; and whenever a female repulsed him he disgraced her, if he had an opportunity, or else some one who was near and dear to her.