Betty and Caleb for the moment were forgotten, while they talked of Helen’s future, of the change in Jack’s life, of his new housekeeping, and of the thousand and one things that interested them both,—the kind of talk that two such friends indulge in who have been parted for a week or more, and who, in the first ten minutes, run lightly over their individual experiences, so that both may start fresh again with nothing hidden in either life. When he rose to go, she kept him standing while she pinned in his buttonhole a sprig of mignonette picked from her window-box, and said, with the deepest interest, “I can’t get that poor child out of my mind. Don’t be too hard on her, Henry; she’s the one who will suffer most.”
When Sanford reached his rooms again he sank into a chair which Sam had drawn close to the window, and sighed with content. “Oh, these days off!” he exclaimed.
The appointments of his own apartments seemed never so satisfying and so welcome as when he had spent a week with his men, taking his share of the exposure with all the discomforts that it brought. His early life had fitted him for these changes, and a certain cosmopolitan spirit in the man, a sort of underlying stratum of Bohemianism, had made it easy for him to adapt himself to his surroundings, whatever they might be. Not that his restless spirit could long have endured any life, either rough or luxurious, that repeated itself day after day. He could idle with the idlest, but he must also work when the necessity came, and that with all his might.
Sam always made some special preparation for his home-coming. To-day the awnings were hung over window and balcony, and the most delightful of luncheons had been arranged,—cucumbers smothered in ice, soft-shell crabs, and a roll of cream cheese with a dash of Kirsch and sugar. “I know he don’t git nuffin fit for a dog to eat when he’s away. 'Fo’ God I don’t know how he stands it,” Sam was accustomed to observe to those of his friends who sometimes watched his preparations.
“Major’s done been hyar 'mos’ ebery day you been gone, sah,” he said, drawing out Sanford’s chair, when luncheon was served. “How is it, sah,—am I to mix a cocktail ebery time he comes? An’ dat box ob yo’ big cigars am putty nigh gone; ain’t no more ’n fo’r 'r five of ’em lef.” The major, Sam forgot to mention, was only partly to blame for these two shrinkages in Sanford’s stores.
“What does he come so often for, Sam?” asked Sanford, laughing.
“Dat’s mor’ 'an I know, sah, ’cept he so anxious to git you back, he says. He come twice a day to see if you’re yere. Co’se dere ain’t nuffin cooked, an’ so he don’t git nuffin to eat, but golly! he’s powerful on jewlips. I done tole him yesterday you wouldn’t be back till to-morrow night. Dat whiskey’s all gin out; he saw der empty bottle hisse’f; he ain’t been yere agin to-day,” with a chuckle.
“Always give the major whatever he wants,” said Sanford. “And Sam,” he called as that darky was disappearing in the pantry, “a few gentlemen will be here to supper to-morrow night. Remind me to make a list in the morning of what you will want.”
The list was made out, and a very toothsome and cooling list it was,—a frozen melon tapped and filled with a pint of Pommery sec, by way of beginning. All the trays and small tables with their pipes and smokables were brought out, a music-stand was opened and set up near a convenient shaded candle, and the lid of the piano was lifted and propped up rabbit-trap fashion.
Just as the moon was rising, silvering the tops of the trees in the square below, Smearly in white flannels and flaming tie arrived fresh from his studio, where he had been at work on a ceiling for some millionaire’s salon. Jack followed in correct evening dress, and Curran from his office, in a business suit. The major was arrayed in a nondescript combination of yellow nankeen and black bombazine, that would have made him an admirable model for a poster in two tints. He was still full of his experiences at the warehouse hospital after the accident to the Screamer. His little trip to Keyport as acting escort to Mrs. Leroy had not only opened his eyes to a class of workingmen of whose existence he had never dreamed, but it had also furnished him with a new and inexhaustible topic of conversation. Every visitor at his downtown office had listened to his recital by the hour. To-night, however, the major had a new audience, and a new audience always added fuel to the fire of his eloquence.