One afternoon, as he was sitting smoking a light Havana in the front room of the Manhattan Club—a favorite club of Enoch’s, since it was but a short walk from the top floor of Waverly Place—he broke out in a broad grin, and rubbed his stubborn chin.
“What cheek that fellow had!” he exclaimed half aloud. “He’s insufferable.” Then he began to laugh softly to himself, and as he laughed Ford’s calm effrontery seemed all the more amusing.
“I’ll go down and call on him to-morrow afternoon,” he muttered, and straightway made a note of it in a small, well-thumbed leather memorandum-book, which he invariably carried in his vest pocket, next to his reading-glasses. Had any one chanced to glance into this little book, filled with interesting engagements, they would have read the complete diary of Enoch’s daily life. The leaf he had turned to ran as follows:
Thursday: Dinner of the Society of Mechanical Research.
Saturday: Geographical Society.
Friday: Dinner to Commander Nelson.
Saturday: Meeting at Century.
Tuesday: Rear-Admiral Mason to lunch—Daly’s—Union Club.
Sunday: Joseph Jefferson’s birthday.
Monday afternoon was free, however, and it was here he jotted down “Ford.”
At five o’clock Monday, Ebner Ford answered Enoch’s knock at his door in his carpet slippers and shirt-sleeves, both of which he apologized for, recovered an alpaca office coat from Mrs. Ford’s bedroom closet, retained the slippers, declared he had just had a nap after a heavy business day, regretted his stepdaughter was out, singing up-town at a tea, and assured his visitor that his better half would be dressed to receive him in just a minute.
“Damn glad to see you,” said Ford, straightening his white tie with a nervous wrench in the folding-bed mirror. “Sort of missed you, Crane. Busy, I suppose? Well, we’re all busy. The duller business is, the busier I get. Common sense, ain’t it? ‘Early bird gets the worm,’ as the feller said. Come to think of it, most of my big deals in life have come from gittin’ up early—gittin’ after ’em—gittin’ after the other feller before he gits after you.” Ford winked his left eyelid at Enoch. “When you’ve got as many irons in the fire as I have, Crane,” he declared, “it don’t do to let ’em get cold. Set down, won’t you, and make yourself at home.”
So far it had not occurred to him to offer his guest a seat.
“Take that there rocker,” he said with insistence; “best in the market. Sid Witherall made that rocker. You know the Witherall brothers, I suppose; big lumber people up-State; slapped right into the furniture business as easy as slidin’ off a log. That’s one of Sid’s patents. Spring balance, you see, keeps her rockin’. Sid made a heap of money out of that contrivance. Sells ’em like hot cakes. Just the thing for porch or shady nook, country or seaside, an ornament to the home and a joy to old and young. Well, say—when it comes to advertisin’, Sid’s about as cute as they make ’em, regular persuader in print. Though if I do say it, Crane, he’ll have to hop along some to beat our latest prospectus of the U. F. L. A., Limited. Cast your eye over that, neighbor!” he exclaimed, jerking a circular from a bundle on his roll-top desk, fresh from the printer’s. He handed it to Enoch with a triumphant air.
“Thank you,” said Enoch quietly, as he accepted the proffered rocker. He put on his reading-glasses, and began to peruse the latest circular of the United Family Laundry Association with grim resignation, Ford, with his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, waiting in silence for him to finish.