"When you show signs of mental decay, it's time for us to go home, Wheaton." Raridan held out his hand to Saxton. "I'm glad you're here, and you may be sure we'll try to make you like us. Wheaton and I live in a barracks around the corner, with a few other homeless wanderers. An ill-favored thing,—but our own! I hope to see you there. Don't be afraid of the Chinaman at the door. My cell is up one flight and to the right."
"And don't overlook me there," Wheaton interposed. "I suppose we shall see you down town very often. Mr. Raridan is the only man in Clarkson who has no visible means of support. The rest of us are pretty busy; but that doesn't mean that we shan't be glad to see you at the Clarkson National."
"You see how intensely commercial he is," said Raridan. "He's talking for the bank, you notice, and not for himself."
"I'm sure he means both." Saxton had followed them to the front door, where they repeated their good nights; he then climbed slowly to his room. He had never before met a man so volatile and fanciful as Warrick Raridan. He felt the warmth and friendliness of Raridan's nature as people always did; Wheaton seemed cold and dull in comparison. Saxton unpacked his trunks and distributed his things about the room. His effects were simple, as befitted a man who was plain of mind and person. He had collected none of the memorabilia which young men usually have assembled at twenty-five. The furnishings of his dressing table and desk were his own purchases, or those of his sister, who was the only woman that had ever made him gifts. Having emptied his trunks and sent them to the storeroom above, he seated himself comfortably in a lounging chair and smoked a final pipe before turning in.
CHAPTER III SWEET PEAS
When he confided to John Saxton his belief that there were those among his fellow townsmen who thought him "crooked," William Porter had no serious idea that such was the case. He had, however, an impression that the term "crooked" implied a high degree of sagacity and shrewdness. He knew men in other cities whose methods were, to put it mildly, indirect, and their names were synonymous with success. It pleased him to think that he was of their order, and he was rich enough to indulge this idiosyncrasy without fear of the criticisms of his neighbors. It amused him to quiz customers of his bank, though he took care not to estrange them. While his fellow citizens never seriously reflected on his integrity, yet they did say that "Billy" Porter knew his business; that he was "on to his job"; or, that to get ahead of him one must "get up early in the morning". "Billy Porter's luck" was a significant phrase in Clarkson. Porter had occasionally scored phenomenal successes, until his legitimate credit as a man of business was reinforced by this reputation. He believed that he enjoyed the high favor of fortune, and it lent assurance to his movements.
Porter lived well, as became a first citizen of Clarkson. His house stood at the summit of a hill near the end of Varney Street, and the gradual slope leading up to it was a pretty park, whose lawn and shrubbery showed the intelligent care of a good gardener. The dry air was still hot as John Saxton climbed the cement walk which wound over the slope at the proper degree to bring the greatest comfort to pedestrians. The green of the lawn was grateful to Saxton's eyes, which dwelt with relief on the fine spray of the rotary sprinklers that hissed coolly at the end of long lines of hose. Interspersed among the indigenous scrub-oaks were elms, maples and cedars, and the mottled bark of white birches showed here and there. The lawn was broken by beds of cannas, and it was evident that the owner of the place had a taste for landscape gardening and spent his money generously in cultivating it. The house itself was of red brick dating from those years in which a Mansard roof and a tower were thought indispensable in serious domestic architecture. There was a broad veranda on the river side, accessible through French windows of the same architectural period.