“Is Harran anywhere about?” he asked. “I'd like to see Harran, too.”
“No,” said Mrs. Derrick, “Harran went to Bonneville early this morning.”
She glanced toward Annixter nervously, without turning her head, lest she should disturb her outspread hair.
“What is it you want to see Mr. Derrick about?” she inquired hastily. “Is it about this plan to elect a Railroad Commission? Magnus does not approve of it,” she declared with energy. “He told me so last night.”
Annixter moved about awkwardly where he sat, smoothing down with his hand the one stiff lock of yellow hair that persistently stood up from his crown like an Indian's scalp-lock. At once his suspicions were all aroused. Ah! this feemale woman was trying to get a hold on him, trying to involve him in a petticoat mess, trying to cajole him. Upon the instant, he became very crafty; an excess of prudence promptly congealed his natural impulses. In an actual spasm of caution, he scarcely trusted himself to speak, terrified lest he should commit himself to something. He glanced about apprehensively, praying that Magnus might join them speedily, relieving the tension.
“I came to see about giving a dance in my new barn,” he answered, scowling into the depths of his hat, as though reading from notes he had concealed there. “I wanted to ask how I should send out the invites. I thought of just putting an ad. in the 'Mercury.'”
But as he spoke, Presley had come up behind Annixter in time to get the drift of the conversation, and now observed:
“That's nonsense, Buck. You're not giving a public ball. You MUST send out invitations.”
“Hello, Presley, you there?” exclaimed Annixter, turning round. The two shook hands.
“Send out invitations?” repeated Annixter uneasily. “Why must I?”