“Oh, I see. Indiana! That’s a nice little trip, isn’t it? Well, I see lots of machines going through here these days, many more than I ever expected to see. It’s made a difference in my business. Only”—and here followed a long account of his troubles. He owned houses and lands, a farm of three hundred acres not far out, on which he lived, and other properties, but this saloon obviously was his pet. “I’m thinking of making an eating place of it next fall,” he added. “‘No license’ may not last—forever.” His eye had a shrewd, calculating expression.
“That’s true,” I said.
“It keeps me worried, though,” he added doubtfully. “I don’t like to leave now. Besides, I’m getting along. I’m nearly sixty,” he straightened himself up as though he meant to prove that he was only forty, “and I like my farm. It really wouldn’t kill me if I never could open this place any more.” But I could see that he was talking just to hear himself talk, boasting. He was desperately fond of his saloon and all that it represented; not ashamed, by any means.
“But there’s Newark and New York,” I said. “I should think you’d like to go down there.”
“I might,” he agreed; “perhaps I will. It’s a long way for me, though. Won’t you have another drink—you and your friends?” By now Franklin and Speed were returning and Mr. Delano waved a ceremonious, inclusive hand, as if to extend all the courtesies of the establishment.
The bartender was most alert—a cautious, apprehensive person. I could see that Mr. Delano was inclined to be something of a martinet. For some reason he had conceived of us as personages—richer than himself, no doubt—and was anxious to live up to our ideas of things and what he thought we might expect.
“Well, now,” he said, as we were leaving, “if you ever come through here again you might stop and see if I’m still here.”
As Speed threw on the ignition spark and the machine began to rumble and shake, Mr. Delano proceeded up the handsome small town street with quite a stride. I could see that he felt himself very much of a personage—one of the leading figures of Owego.
CHAPTER XV
A RIDE BY NIGHT
It was a glorious night—quite wonderful. There are certain summer evenings when nature produces a poetic, emotionalizing mood. Life seems to talk to you in soft whispers of wonderful things it is doing. Marshes and pools, if you encounter any, exhale a mystic breath. You can look into the profiles of trees and define strange gorgon-like countenances—all the crones and spectres of a thousand years. (What images of horror have I not seen in the profiles of trees!) Every cottage seems to contain a lamp of wonder and to sing. Every garden suggests a tryst of lovers. A river, if you follow one, glimmers and whimpers. The stars glow and sing. They bend down like lambent eyes. All nature improvises a harmony—a splendid harmony—one of her rarest symphonies indeed.