"Did he engineer this part of the thing, too, Boswell?" questioned the young man, interestedly.
"Sure, he did. But who is he?"
"Didn't you know who he was? That's so—you've called him Perkins all along, but this is the first time I've seen him here, and I didn't put two and two together. His letters and 'phones about this supper came from in town somewhere. Why, he's Chris Parker, the biggest hotel man in the country. Nobody like him—he'd make the deadest hotel in the loneliest hamlet pay in a month. Head of all the hotel organizations you can count. Most original chap in the world. Doctor Austin was telling me to-night about ordering him off for a rest because he'd put such a lot of nerve tension into his schemes he was on the edge of a bad breakdown. Well, well, you're mighty lucky if you've got him backing you. No other man on earth could have got the Mercury Club up here to-night—a place they'd never heard of."
So Tom was thinking. He was still thinking it when the motor car shot away down the hill with its load, the physician calling back at his ex-patient: "Don't get going too soon again, Parker! So far, so good, but don't——"
The last words were lost in a final boom from West Peak.
Tom went slowly out upon the porch, feeling embarrassed and uncertain. How could he ever express his gratitude to this mighty man of valour?
"Perkins" was sitting, as usual, astride the porch rail, the red light of his cigar glowing against the dark background of the mountains where the bonfires were dying to mere sparks. He looked around as Tom appeared, and grinned in a friendly way under the Chinese lanterns.
"Tough luck, to get caught at the last minute, eh?" he said.
"Mr. Per—Parker——" began Tom, and stopped.
The "biggest hotel man in the country" looked at the greenest young innkeeper, and there was satisfaction in his bright black eyes.