Jubilee chuckled as a preliminary to one of his characteristic outbursts. Then he took in the whole company in his expansive, headlong way.
“Burt’s got a hell of a hunch, an’ I won’t have to charge him haf-a-dollar for that shirt,” he laughed delightedly. “My, Abe, but he got you plumb in the pit of the stomach. And he was right, sure. I guess you can throw all the dirt you fancy in Beacon without ever a chance of missin’ things. But the Speedway ain’t available for that playing without hurtin’ folks who’re mostly your friends. What ’ud we do without the Speedway? Why, die plumb to death setting around your verandah, smashin’ skitters. I can’t think of dying worse.”
The grin died out of his eyes, and a curious sort of earnestness replaced it as he went on:
“No, Abe,” he said, sitting up abruptly and spreading out his lean, tenacious hands, which were carefully manicured. “Get a grip on yourself and think of the women-folk who get glad there at night. Do you grudge ’em? No, sir, you don’t. You couldn’t. It’s not in you. You know a woman hasn’t a swell time in life when you think about her. And in Beacon she wouldn’t get any time at all.” He laughed again. “We’re told the first woman was made out of man’s ‘scrap.’ Maybe that’s how it comes she’s had to put up with man’s ‘left-over’ ever since.” He shook his head. “To my thinking, woman’s never had a better time than a yaller pup ever since she disappointed her folk with her sex. It seems to me a poor sort of life fixing a man’s hash so he don’t take too big a chance on his life policy. Think how she needs to smile every time a feller hands her out five cents to make vacation on, same as if she was pleased. Chores seem to be the limit of woman’s joy in life, and I guess she’ll go right on chasing kids’ noses with a swab till she jerks up at the graveyard. She’ll keep on trying to feed her whole bunch on the change out of a dollar, and the promises her man hands out to her like dead leaves in the fall. She’s got a hell of a life, even if it’s only she’s expected to swallow a man’s lies whole and sit around foolish waiting for ’em to come true. No, Abe, don’t you ever go for to rob her of a moment’s pleasure. She’ll mother you sick, and mother you well. She’ll lie for you and fight for you. And when she’s broke her heart keepin’ folks from lynching you, she’ll tidy you all she knows and pass you into the crematorium in the hope of making you a real sanitary proposition for the first time in your darn life. Ther’s all sorts of ’em find joy in the Speedway. Some are foolish, but,” he finished up, turning his perfectly serious eyes in the direction of the great dance hall, “ther’s those who—aren’t.”
At that instant a raucous honk! honk! echoed down the wide, dust-laden, unkempt thoroughfare, and every eye was turned in the direction.
Out of a dust cloud a high-powered automobile raced down towards them, rolling and bumping over the perilous unevennesses of the road, regardless of every consequence. It was painted a curious rich red, a big saloon body with black running gear and black roof. It contained only two women, both expensively clad, one of whom had a wealth of red hair that seemed to match the colour of the vehicle. Every man on the verandah was craning. Every eye was watching the car’s reckless progress. And as it passed, leaving them almost lost under a fog of dust, it was Doc Finch who, returning his feet to their resting-place on the verandah rail, voiced something of the thought that occurred to the mind of each.
“No,” he said, smiling amiably round on the company, “there’s no gang, or clan, or bunch of disorderly toughs in Beacon Glory that ’ud dare to do harm to the Speedway so long as St. Claire Carver is its patron saint.”
The banker nodded prompt agreement.
“That’s a cinch, Doc,” he said. “She’s got every man in Beacon just where any good woman could want him.”