CHAPTER XIV. GEORGE CARVER'S BRIDE
The day that Winifred Barbour was married to George Carver was as beautiful as a day might be. The ceremony was performed in her own little home and was followed by a reception that lasted on toward the evening. Every gay gown in Patchogue had its chance for an airing on that gala day, but when evening shadows began to fall, the church bell rang, and every man and woman, to say nothing of the children, betook themselves to the church. A monster wedding supper, the inspiration of the townspeople acting in one accord, had been spread, and none would be denied admission.
It was Winifred's hour of triumph over her young lord and master, who, while subject to congratulations, came in for small glory. The fact that he was soon to depart with his bride for their new home in Riverhead failed to develop any medals for him.
"Why don't you quit that dead county seat town and stay here among us 'ristocrats," demanded Old Man Carmichel, gruffly, by way of gleaming daggers—then bursting out in wild guffaws, "Jes'ta take the feller off'n his feet."
But Carver had seen many such in his bright young life, and he likened them to the usual village "Jester," who started that way and kept it going to the end of his days. Nevertheless, it was Carver's night to be affable so he grinned quite good naturedly as he awaited the arrival of Henry Updyke and his big touring car. It was the one privilege the big fellow had demanded, since he could not attend the wedding—to see the bride safely to the door of her new home. And he had his reason for that, aside from its pleasure, for the event had been attended by much advance publicity, far greater than the prominence of the happy girl would ordinarily entitle her.
The New York papers gave mention of the forthcoming wedding in their last Sunday editions, and on the following Sabbath the "write ups" would be much extended, with a picture of the bride in the magazine sections.
Mary Johnson, Updyke's assistant, had seen to all that by personally making the rounds of Newspaper Row. A camera man, as if dropped from the clouds, seemed somewhat officious to the townspeople of Patchogue, when he posed the young couple on the steps of the church. Just how a young fellow with tripod and camera could halt with his hand a great host of people, and sweep them this way and that until they posed artistically about the bride and groom, was something to ponder on. In the doing of this there was some rivalry by way of holding one's own in "the limelight," but the camera was newfangled, and it revolved either way sufficiently to take in the most prominent of those in the wake of the bride—and much to the mystification of more than one person. It was Old Man Carmichel's turn to again become facetious.
"I'll be switched if I c'n see how they take pitchers with a contraption that won't stay put," said he, his eyes showing his mystification. "It must be broke, or somethin'."