Hardened trail men, no less than educated men from the cities of culture in the outer world, yielded to the seductions of the Speedway. So did the women, who regarded it as a part of their daily lives. The charm of subdued lights in the gaming rooms; the dazzle and glitter at the gilded bars, and in the dance hall; the subtle, rather sickly perfume of the place, the value of which Max so perfectly understood; these things all contributed to make it a veritable temple for the spiritual debasement of its devotees.
On the night of its birthday the Speedway was swept and garnished to the last degree. Fashion and custom were no less strong in Beacon than in the more enlightened dwelling-places of humanity. Every visitor to the place would be clad for the occasion. No woman would dare to appear for the festival without some sort of a new gown. And as for the men, knee-boots would be taboo, and heavy working shoes were under the ban. Every man who was accustomed to resort there would be raiding the shoe store the day before, and, failing evening suits as part of their wardrobes, certainly only the best they possessed could be tolerated.
It was truly a splendid function and possessed all the outward display with which humanity loves to hide up the wealth of moral blemish to which it is unfortunately and unfailingly heir. The place was super-heated and the air was heavy-laden, and Max, as he welcomed his customers and guests, radiated smile, and perfume, and punctilio without discrimination.
Jubilee Hurst, observing him after enduring his own portion of the formalities at the foot of the great staircase in the central hall, realised to the full the delicious mockery of it all. He whispered his comment to Ivor McLagan, who stood beside him, clad in the well-cut evening suit that was anathema to his downright soul.
“You know, Mac, there’s a heap to Max of the feline species. He’s a mitt on him that ’ud shame velvet, and a tongue to match, and I feel plumb sick in the pit of the stomach, and like handling a newly hooked eel, when I get near enough to listen to his fancy dope, and feel the tips of his polished fingers in my hand. Get a line on him bowing around to folks whose bank roll he’s made his life’s study. See his Dago antics. You’d guess he loves us all to death, while all the time he’s out for plunder like any ‘hold-up’ that ever flagged a western express. And we’re all grinning back at him to schedule. And we’re all saying a piece we’ve sort of learnt by heart from years of repetition. Can you beat it? No. I’ll eat his darn feed an’ likely get full up to the back teeth with the liquor he’s going to hand out. But to me it’s simply the change out of the dollars he’s collected out of my wad over a long period of darn foolishness. It isn’t a thing else, unless it’s to say I’m just one of the mutts of life mired at the wrong end of things, an’ can’t afford to act diff’rent.”
McLagan smiled.
“Don’t worry a thing, boy,” he said easily. “It’s just the game of things we’ve all of us got to play more or less as we beat it along the trail to the crematorium. I’d certainly say Max don’t need showing a thing. I want to laff.”
But for all the bitterness of spirit the Italian’s antics might have inspired in those who saw through the mockery of it all, the whole comedy looked to be playing out as the master-mind had designed. It was ordained that the gathering at the Speedway, on this one night in the year, should be a vivid landmark impressed upon the minds of the city’s people, from the banquet to the invited guests, to the ball, and the great gamble that would later take place at the tables. There would be impressive decorum for just as long as decorum could be maintained. And after that, circumstances and the proprietor’s tact, and, failing that, his powers of other persuasion, would deal with every contingency that arose. There would be nothing allowed to occur on that occasion calculated to besmirch the record of the place. That was Max’s purpose. A purpose from which he had no intention of departing.
The banquet was over and the company had dispersed in such directions as individual inclination prompted. Max had thrown his annual shower of verbal bouquets, and had drunk in the responsive adulation and laudatory expressions which custom demanded from his guests. The courses had been disposed of by healthy appetites which refused to be disguised, and an excellent brand of champagne had flowed in no niggard measure to lubricate faculties that were easily enough set in motion for full appreciation of the night’s riot. The ballroom was already thronged with dancers of every grade of ability, and the lure of the tables had claimed their devotees. While not a few were sufficiently attracted by the magnetic glitter of the bars where the white-clad bartenders were under orders to dispense of their best mixtures without charge.