Trailin'!

  CHAPTER IV

  A SESSION OF CHAT

  The whisper grew distinct in words.

  "Peters, you old numskull, come here!"

  The approach of Peters was something like the sidewise waddle of a veryaged crab. He looked to the north, but his feet carried him to the east.That he was much moved was attested by the colour which had mounted evento the gleaming expanse of that nobly bald head.

  "Yes, Master Anthony--I mean Mr. Anthony?"

  He set his teeth at the _faux pas_.

  "Peters, look at me. Confound it, I haven't murdered any one. Are youbusy?"

  It required whole seconds for the eyes to wheel round upon Anthony, andthey were immediately debased from the telltale white of that leg to thefloor.

  "No, sir."

  "Then come up with me and help me change. Quick!"

  He turned and fled noiselessly up the great stairs, with Peters pantingbehind. Anthony's overcoat was off before he had fairly entered his roomand his coat and vest flopped through the air as Peters shut the door.Whatever the old servant lacked in agility he made up in certainknowledge; as he laid out a fresh tuxedo, Anthony changed with the speedof one pursued. The conversation was spasmodic to a degree.

  "Where's father? Waiting in the library?"

  "Yes. Reading, sir."

  "Had a mix-up--bully time, though--damn this collar! Peters, I wishyou'd been there--where's those trousers? Rub some of the crease out of'em--they must look a _little_ worn."

  He stood at last completely dressed while Peters looked on with ashining eye and a smile which in a younger man would have suggested manythings.

  "How is it? Will I pass father this way?"

  "I hope so, sir."

  "But you don't think so?"

  "It's hard to deceive him."

  "Confound it! Don't I know? Well, here's for a try. Soft-foot it downstairs. I'll go after you and bang the door. Then you say good-eveningin a loud voice and I'll go into the library. How's that?"

  "Very good--your coat over your arm--so! Just ruffle your hair a bit,sir--now you should do very nicely."

  At the door: "Go first, Peters--first, man, and hurry, but watch thosebig feet of yours. If you make a noise on the stairs I'm done with you."

  The noiselessness of the descending feet was safe enough, but not sosafe was the chuckling of Peters for, though he fought against thethreatening explosion, it rumbled like the roll of approaching thunder.In the hall below, Anthony opened and slammed the door.

  "Good-evening, Mr. Anthony," said Peters loudly, too loudly.

  "Evening, Peters. Where's father?"

  "In the library, sir. Shall I take your coat?"

  "I'll carry it up to my room when I go. That's all."

  He opened the door to the library and entered with a hope that hisfather would not be facing him, but he found that John Woodbury was noteven reading. He sat by the big fire-place smoking a pipe which he nowremoved slowly from his teeth.

  "Hello, Anthony."

  "Good-evening, sir."

  He rose to shake hands with his son: they might have been friendsmeeting after a separation so long that they were compelled to beformal, and as Anthony turned to lay down his hat and coat he knew thatthe keen grey eyes studied him carefully from head to foot.

  "Take this chair."

  "Why, sir, wouldn't dream of disturbing you."

  "Not a bit. I want you to try it; just a trifle too narrow for me."

  John Woodbury rose and gestured his son to the chair he had beenoccupying. Anthony hesitated, but then, like one who obeys first andthinks afterward, seated himself as directed.

  "Mighty comfortable, sir."

  The big man stood with his hands clasped behind him, peering down undershaggy, iron-grey brows.

  "I thought it would be. I designed it myself for you and I had a prettybad time getting it made."

  He stepped to one side.

  "Hits you pretty well under the knees, doesn't it? Yes, it's deeper thanmost."

  "A perfect fit, father, and mighty thoughtful of you."

  "H-m," rumbled John Woodbury, and looked about like one who hasforgotten something. "What about a glass of Scotch?"

  "Nothing, thank you--I--in fact I'm not very strong for the stuff."

  The rough brows rose a trifle and fell.

  "No? But isn't it usual? Better have a go."

  Once more there was that slight touch of hesitancy, as if the son werenot quite sure of the father and wished to make every concession.

  "Certainly, if it'll make you easier."

  There was an instant softening of the hard lines of the elder Woodbury'sface, as though some favour of import had been done him. He touched abell-cord and lowered himself with a little grunt of relaxation into achair. The chair was stoutly built, but it groaned a little under theweight of the mighty frame it received. He leaned back and in his facewas a light which came not altogether from the comfortable glow of thefire.

  And when the servant appeared the big man ordered: "Scotch and seltzerand one glass with a pitcher of ice."

  "Aren't you taking anything, sir?" asked Anthony.

  "Who, me? Yes, yes, of course. Why, let me see--bring me a pitcher ofbeer." He added as the servant disappeared: "Never could get a taste forScotch, and rye doesn't seem to be--er--good form. Eh, Anthony?"

  "Nonsense," frowned the son, "haven't you a right to be comfortable inyour own house?"

  "Come, come!" rumbled John Woodbury. "A young fellow in your positioncan't have a boor for a father, eh?"

  It was apparently an old argument between them, for Anthony staredgloomily at the fire, making no attempt to reply; and he glanced up inrelief when the servant entered with the liquor. John Woodbury, however,returned to the charge as soon as they were left alone again, saying:"As a matter of fact, I'm about to set you up in an establishment ofyour own in New York." He made a vastly inclusive gesture. "Everythingdone up brown--old house--high-class interior decorator, to get youstarted with a splash."

  "Are you tired of Long Island?"

  "_I'm_ not going to the city, but you will."

  "And my work?"

  "A gentleman of the class you'll be in can't callous his hands withwork. I spent my life making money; you can use your life throwing itaway--like a gentleman. But"--he reached out at this point and smashed aburly fist into a palm hardly less hard--"but I'll be damned, Anthony,if I'll let you stay here in Long Island wasting your time riding thewildest horses you can get and practising with an infernal revolver.What the devil do you mean by it?"

  "I don't know," said the other, musing. "Of course the days of revolversare past, but I love the feel of the butt against my palm--I love thekick of the barrel tossing up--I love the balance; and when I have asix-shooter in my hand, sir, I feel as if I had six lives. Odd, isn'tit?" He grew excited as he talked, his eyes gleaming with dancing pointsof fire. "And I'll tell you this, sir: I'd rather be out in the countrywhere men still wear guns, where the sky isn't stained with filthy coalsmoke, where there's an horizon wide enough to breathe in, where there'sman-talk instead of this damned chatter over tea-cups--"

  "Stop!" cried John Woodbury, and leaned forward, "no matter what foolideas you get into your head--you're going to be a _gentleman_!"

  The swaying forward of that mighty body, the outward thrust of the jaws,the ring of the voice, was like the crashing of an ax when armoured menmeet in battle. The flicker in the eyes of Anthony was the rapier whichswerves from the ax and then leaps at the heart. For a critical secondtheir glances crossed and then the habit of obedience conquered.

  "I suppose you know, sir."

  The father stared gloomily at the floor.

  "You're sort of mad, Anthony?"

  Perhaps there was nothing more typical of Anthony than that he neverfrowned, no matter how angered he might be. Now the cold light passedfrom his eyes. He rose and passed behind the chair of the elder man,dropping a hand upon those massive shoulders.

  "Angry with myself, sir,
that I should so nearly fall out with thefinest father that walks the earth."

  The eyes of the grey man half closed and a semblance of a smile touchedthose stiff, stern lips; one of the great work-broken hands went up andrested on the fingers of his son.

  "And there'll be no more of this infernal Western nonsense that you'realways reverting to? No more of this horse-and-gun-and-hell-bent-awaystuff?"

  "I suppose not," said Anthony heavily.

  "Well, Anthony, sit down and tell me about tonight."

  The son obeyed, and finally said, with difficulty: "I didn't go to theMorrison supper."

  A sudden cloud of white rose from the bowl of Woodbury's pipe.

  "But I thought--"

  "That it was a big event? It was--a fine thing for me to get a bid to;but I went to the Wild West show instead. Sir, I know it was childish,but--I couldn't help it! I saw the posters; I thought of thehorse-breaking, the guns, the swing and snap and dash of galloping men,the taint of sweating horses--and by God, sir, I _couldn't_ stay away!Are you angry?"

  It was more than anger; it was almost fear that widened the eye ofWoodbury as he stared at his son. He said at last, controlling himself:"But I have your word; you've given up the thought of this Westernlife?"

  "Yes," answered Anthony, with a touch of despair, "I have given it up, Isuppose. But, oh, sir--" He stopped, hopeless.

  "And what else happened?"

  "Nothing to speak of."

  "After you come home you don't usually change your clothes merely forthe pleasure of sitting with me here."

  "Nothing escapes you, does it?" muttered Anthony.

  "In your set, Anthony, that's what they'd call an improper question."

  "I could ask you any number of questions, sir, for that matter."

  "Well?"

  "That room over there, for instance, which you always keep locked. Am Inever to have a look at it?"

  He indicated a door which opened from the library.

  "I hope not."

  "You say that with a good deal of feeling. But there's one thing morethat I have a right to hear about. My mother! Why do you never tell meof her?"

  The big man stirred and the chair groaned beneath him.

  "Because it tortures me to speak of her, Anthony," said the husky voice."Tortures me, lad!"

  "I let the locked room go," said Anthony firmly, "but my mother--she isdifferent. Why, sir, I don't even know how she looked! Dad, it's myright!"

  "Is it? By God, you have a right to know exactly what I choose to tellyou--no more!"

  He rose, strode across the room with ponderous steps, drew aside thecurtains which covered the view of the garden below, and stared for atime into the night. When he turned he found that Anthony had risen--aslender, erect figure. His voice was as quiet as his anger, but aninward quality made it as thrilling as the hoarse boom of his father.

  "On that point I stick. I must know something about her."

  "Must?"

  "In spite of your anger. That locked room is yours; this house andeverything in it is yours; but my mother--she was as much mine as yours,and I'll hear more about her--who she was, what she looked like, whereshe lived--"

  The sharply indrawn breath of John Woodbury cut him short.

  "She died in giving birth to you, Anthony."

  "Dear God! She died for me?"

  And in the silence which came over the two men it seemed as if anotherpresence were in the room. John Woodbury stood at the fire-place withbowed head, and Anthony shaded his eyes and stared at the floor until hecaught a glimpse of the other and went gently to him.

  He said: "I'm sorrier than a lot of words could tell you. Will you sitdown, sir, and let me tell you how I came to press home the question?"

  "If you want to have it that way."

  They resumed their chairs.