“Not a little bit, Mr. Stewart,” interrupted the captain; “he came in here to me this morning with his face all afire. An’ but that I don’t think he can get real angry, I believe he would have been mad with me because he found me laughing over the story. However, I’ve soothed him by telling him what a lot of good it will do, and now, I think, he’ll be quite reconciled to the next batch of reporters that comes along.”
“That’s principally what I’ve come in about, captain,” said Mr. Stewart. “So far, the report has been all right and there’s no harm done, but I’m a bit afraid that the gang that will surely arrive presently will try to mix up Mary’s name with it, invent some fool story about her and Christmas that’ll hurt us all like the devil. Now, what I wanted to do was to warn you, Christmas, on this one point. Tell those fellows everything you can, for the more you tell ’em the less chance they’ll have to invent; but try and make ’em keep my girl’s name out of it, won’t ye?” This last almost imploringly.
C. B. drew himself up a little as he replied—
“How could I tell them anything about Miss Stewart beyond what has been already printed, unless I told falsehoods, invented a story like a reporter does? I know nothing, and if I did I should refuse to say anything about another person’s business.”
Mr. Stewart looked doubtfully at him as if mistrusting, not his truthfulness or honour, but his ability to prevent those reporters from turning him inside out like a glove, and gave a sigh, which Captain Taber noticing, made him remark, “I think, Mr. Stewart, that you can trust C. B.’s invincible honesty and truth to be a match for men who are so accustomed to deal with the opposite qualities that they will be hopelessly overmatched.”
At that moment an attendant knocked at the door, and entering, said—
“Three gentlemen to see Mr. Adams.”
“All right, Billy,” answered Mr. Stewart. “Go on, my boy; we can’t do better I’m sure than leave you to yourself in this matter. I was a fool to try and interfere.” And he gave C. B. a playful push out of the door.
The attendant was waiting for him and ushered him into the main saloon, where there sat three of the most divergent types of men one could imagine. One had, in spite of his good, well-cut clothes, an air of seediness about him, want of brushing, cigar ash, up all night kind of appearance; he was a reporter. The next was obviously a parson of sorts, yet with a keen business air about him too, which rather belied his white tie. The third was the most objectionable person of the three, as far as looks went. He was gross, with a great belly and bulbous nose. His rather dirty hands were loaded with heavy rings, and a massive gold watch-chain lay across the big rotundity of his stomach. His clothes were of a violent pattern check, his broad-brimmed felt hat was worn at the back of his head, a gaudy boutonnière adorned his coat lapel, a fat cigar was between his purple lips, he fingered a huge roll of bills ostentatiously, and spat frequently wherever it pleased him.
As soon as C. B. appeared all three arose and extended their hands in greeting. They all began to talk at once, but the reporter, holding up his hand, said—