Kitabı oku: «Skinner's Dress Suit», sayfa 6

CHAPTER IX
SKINNER FISHES WITH A DIPLOMATIC HOOK

The first step in the scheme which Skinner had evolved for the reclamation of Willard Jackson, of St. Paul, Minnesota, was to be taken Sunday morning, after services, at the First Presbyterian Church of Meadeville, New Jersey.

Skinner had not told Honey he was going to take her on his trip West. He would do that after church, if a certain important detail of his plan did not miscarry. Although he paid respectful attention to the sermon, Skinner's thoughts were at work on something not religious, and he was relieved when the doxology was finished and the blessing asked. Unlike most of the others present, Skinner was in no hurry to leave. Instead, he loitered in the aisle until Mrs. Stephen Colby overtook him on her way down from one of the front pews.

"Why, Mr. Skinner, this is a surprise," exclaimed the social arbiter. Then slyly, "There's some hope for you yet."

"I thought I'd come in and make my peace before embarking on a railroad journey," Skinner observed.

"Going away? Not for long, I hope."

"St. Paul. I'm not carrying a message from the Ephesians – just a business trip."

"St. Paul's very interesting."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"You've never been there?"

"No."

"Goodness – I know it well."

"What bothers me is, I'm afraid Mrs. Skinner 'll find it dull. I'm taking her along. You see, I 'll have lots to do, but she does n't know anybody out there."

The social arbiter pondered a moment. "But she should know somebody. Would you mind if I gave her a letter to Mrs. J. Matthews Wilkinson? Very old friend of mine and very dear. You'll find her charming. Something of a bore on family. Her great-grandfather was a kind of land baron out that way."

"It's mighty good of you to do that for Mrs. Skinner."

"Bless you, I'm doing it for you, too. You have n't forgotten that you're a devilish good dancer and you don't chatter all the time?" Then, after a pause, "I'm wishing a good thing on the Wilkinsons, too," – confidentially, – "for I don't mind telling you I've found Mrs. Skinner perfectly delightful. She's a positive joy to me."

"You're all right, Mrs. Colby."

"That's the talk. Yes, I'm coming along." She waved her hand to Stephen Colby. "When do you go?"

"To-morrow morning."

"I'll send the letter over this afternoon – and if you don't mind, I 'll wire the Wilkinsons that you're coming on."

Skinner impulsively caught her hand. "Mrs. Colby, you're the best fellow I ever met!"

When the letter arrived at the Skinner's house that afternoon, Honey knitted her brows.

"I don't understand it."

"You ought to. It's for you."

"Dearie," said Honey, rising, her eyes brimming, "you mean to say that I'm going to St. Paul with you?"

"Don't have to say it. Is n't that letter enough?"

"Dearie, you're the most wonderful man I ever saw. Think of it! – a letter from Mrs. Colby! I'll bet those Wilkinsons are swells!"

"They breathe the Colby stratum of the atmosphere. It's a special stratum, designed and created for that select class."

"It's quite intoxicating."

"Special brands usually are."

"I thought those Western cities did n't have classes."

"My dear, blood is n't a matter of geography. There's not a village in the United States that does n't have its classes. The more loudly they brag of their democracy, the greater the distance from the top to the bottom."

As Skinner said this, he jotted down in his little book: —

and Honey clapped her hands.

And as he put Mrs. Colby's letter in his inside pocket, Skinner muttered to himself, "A climber, but does n't climb. She'll climb for this all right!"

The Skinners reached St. Paul Tuesday night and registered at The Hotel. When he had deposited Honey in the suite which had been reserved by wire for them, Skinner proceeded to execute the next step in his scheme for the reclamation of Willard Jackson. He returned to the desk.

"I wish," he said to the chief clerk, "that you 'd see to it that a paragraph regarding my arrival is put in the morning papers, just a little more than mere mention among hotel arrivals" – he took pen and paper and wrote – "something like this: 'William Manning Skinner, of McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc., New York, reached town last evening and is stopping at The Hotel.' There's a lot of people here I want to see, but I might overlook 'em in the rush of business. If they know I'm here, they'll come to see me."

"Very good, Mr. Skinner," said the clerk. "I'll see to it."

Skinner paused a moment. "By Jove, I've almost forgotten the principal thing." He added a few words to the copy. "Put that in, too, please. Can you read it? See: 'Mrs. Skinner, daughter of the late Archibald Rutherford, of Hastings-on-the-Hudson, accompanies her husband.' That's just to please her."

"'Rutherford' – 'Hastings-on-the-Hudson' – swagger name," commented the clerk.

Skinner smiled at the clerk's comment. If it impressed this dapper, matter-of-fact, know-everybody man-of-affairs that way, how much more would it appeal to Mrs. Curmudgeon W. Jackson's social nose. Veritably, it augured well for his scheme.

But he only said, "It reads a devilish sight better than plain Skinner, does n't it?"

"Well," said the clerk, trying to be consoling and diplomatic and failing in both, "you must n't always judge a man by his name."

After breakfast next morning Skinner and Honey remained in their rooms, waiting for the message that was to come from the Wilkinsons, for Skinner had reckoned that any friend of the Colbys would receive prompt attention.

"She'll call you up, Honey, and ask us to dine to-night. There, there, don't ask any questions. I've figured it all out. But we're engaged until Saturday."

"Engaged every night? Why, Dearie, this is only Wednesday. You had n't told me anything about it."

"Quite right," said Skinner, "I had not."

"What are we going to do?"

"I have no plans. I suppose we'll sit in our rooms or go to the theater."

"Well," said Honey, "it beats me."

On reading the morning paper, Mrs. J. Matthews Wilkinson said to her husband, "They're here – the Skinners – Jennie Colby's friends, you know. We must have them to dinner."

"When?" said Wilkinson, looking up from his paper.

"I dare say they'll be here but a short time. Better make it to-night."

"You're the doctor," said Wilkinson, resuming his paper.

"We'll send out a hurry call for the Armitages and the Bairds and the Wendells," said Mrs. Wilkinson, mentally running over her list of the most select of St. Paul's inner circle. "We'll show these people that we're not barbarians out here."

"Can you corral all those folks for to-night? Is n't it rather sudden, my dear?"

"I've dined with them on shorter notice than that, just to accommodate them. I 'll call up the Skinners right away."

Honey answered the 'phone. Of course they'd be delighted to dine at the Wilkinsons, but every night was filled up to Saturday. A pause. Hold Saturday for them? She should say they would.

There was another pause. Then Honey clapped her hand over the receiver and turned to Skinner.

"Can we take a spin with them this afternoon, Dearie?"

"You bet. We've nothing else to do."

"You fraud," said Honey, when she had hung up the receiver, "you said you had engagements."

"I tried to convey to you," observed Skinner, somewhat loftily, "that we couldn't dine at the Wilkinsons' before Saturday. That covers it, I think."

According to Skinner's plans, the dinner at the Wilkinsons' was to be the big, climactic drive at the fortress of Willard Jackson's stubbornness.

As Skinner had reckoned, Mrs. Curmudgeon W. Jackson nosed out the paragraph in the morning paper, first thing.

"Who is this Mr. Skinner, Willard? Do you know him?"

"What Skinner?"

"William Manning Skinner."

"Never heard of him."

"He's of McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc., – your old friends."

Jackson pricked up his ears.

"What's he doing here? Does it say?"

"No."

"I know," said Jackson shrewdly. "He's out here after me." He chuckled. "They've been sending emissaries to get me back ever since I quit 'em. Even the partners came out, one at a time. That shows what they think of my trade."

"Skinner's got his wife with him."

"I don't blame him. It's a devilish mean business going on the road without some one to look after you." Jackson paused. "But he can't disguise his fine Italian hand that way. I know those fellows."

"She's some swell," said Mrs. Jackson. "Daughter of the late Archibald Rutherford, of Hastings-on-the-Hudson."

"That don't mean anything. The way they write it makes it look aristocratic. Rutherford! – he might have been a butcher! And Hastings-on-the-Hudson! Well, they have butchers there as well as Astors!"

"Mebbe you're right."

"I'll bet you a new dress Skinner'll be after me to-day," said Jackson, folding his newspaper and preparing to leave for his office. "Trust your Uncle Dudley here – I know."

The very first words that greeted Jackson that night when he reached home were, "I get the dress, don't I?"

"How do you know?"

"Skinner didn't get after you to-day. Look!"

Mrs. Jackson held up the evening paper and read aloud. "'A belated honeymoon – that's what we're here for more than anything else,' said Mr. William Manning Skinner, of McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc., of New York, to a reporter this afternoon. The Skinners had just returned from a spin over beyond Minneapolis with the J. Matthews Wilkinsons – "

"The devil you say!" said Jackson, reaching over and taking the paper. "Aw!" He chucked the paper aside. "That don't establish their social status any more than living in Hastings-on-the-Hudson or being a Rutherford. It don't amount to anything. It's just business. Fellows like Wilkinson, when some outsider is n't quite good enough socially and they want to swell his head without committing themselves, take him in their car or to the club. In that way they save their business faces without sacrificing their social faces. I know," he growled.

"But how did he get in with the Wilkinsons? They have n't any business."

"Wilkinson is in all sorts of things that nobody knows of but himself." He glanced over the sub-caption. "Skinner sees no difference socially between the St. Paul and the New York people. Puts St. Paul first," he observed, "thanks for that." He read further. "'But the Western people are more frankly hospitable'!"

"Moonshine! Moonshine!" he commented. "Hospitality ain't a matter of location. You'll find generous people and devilish mean people, no matter where you go. That's soft soap. It reads well – but – I know."

"It don't look as if he'd have much time for you, Willard."

"He ain't through yet," said Jackson, lighting a stogie. "I'll bet you another dress that to-morrow – "

"Taken!"

Mrs. Jackson turned again to the paper.

"That girl knows how to dress, all right!"

But it was n't Honey's dress that stirred Mrs. Jackson's soul to the depths. These Skinners were hand in glove with the inaccessible Wilkinsons, and – the devil take it – Jackson was no longer a customer of McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc.

Skinner read the evening paper with great satisfaction. The inky seed disseminated through the press was, he felt, bound to take strong root in the fertile consciousness of Mrs. Curmudgeon W. Jackson, and therefrom was sure to react effectively upon the decidedly active consciousness of Jackson himself.

With this end in view, as per plan of campaign for the reclamation of Willard Jackson, Skinner had had himself interviewed on a subject dear and flattering to the Middle West, especially flattering to St. Paul. He had written his "first impressions of St. Paul" on the way out from New York, and had permitted the same to be extracted by the reporters – with great cunning – from his modest and reluctant self. Honey was present – designedly present – while the young newspaper men were quizzing Skinner, dressed in her very latest, which was carefully noted and described in the interview, for decorative purposes.

"We just looked in en passant," Skinner observed to the reporters, using his French to the limit. "It's a kind of belated honeymoon. We've seen Mr. Hill's residence and we ran over and looked at those wonderful flour mills in Minneapolis, your neighbor" – He paused.

A frozen atmosphere seemed suddenly to enshroud the reporters. Their pencils ceased to record.

"Oh, yes, let's get back to St. Paul."

Instantly the temperature rose about a hundred degrees, and the reporters' pencils began to move again.

When the newspaper men were gone, Skinner jotted down: —

And when he read his interview in the evening paper, Skinner made this entry: —

The Skinners devoted the days between Wednesday and Saturday to loafing or sight-seeing, principally the former. They drove over to Minneapolis again and took in the wonderful flour mills, for anything that pertained to machinery fascinated Skinner. Then they went out to the Lake and had a trout dinner and all the rest of it. But after a time, this unaccountably useless routine got on Honey's nerves.

"Dearie," she protested, "this is our honeymoon, to be sure, but don't you think you ought to get after business?"

"Don't worry. Business will get after us pretty soon."

"But time is flying."

"Time is doing just what I want it to do. It takes time for plans to develop. It takes time for seed to grow. I started business getting after us Sunday morning at the First Presbyterian Church in Meadeville. I prepared some of the seed on the way out here. I began sowing the evening we arrived. I fanned the flame with a big puff," – he held up the paper with the interview in it. "Jingo, that's funny. I did n't mean it literally."

"Your metaphors are fearfully mixed, Dearie."

"Does n't matter. They're graphic."

"But they're not clear to me."

"They are to me, which is enough," said Skinner, with a suggestion of finality.

Honey pouted reproachfully at the snub, and Skinner's heart instantly smote him.

"Don't worry, Honey. It's all right." He paused. "Now, I'm going to make a prophecy." He pointed impressively at her with his forefinger. "And you mark my words! Things will begin to happen right after the Wilkinson dinner."

"That's Sunday morning."

"Things have happened on Sunday," observed Skinner quietly.

"When do you expect to start for home?"

"I 'm not sure, but I 'm counting strongly on Tuesday morning."

While the Skinners were talking, something pertaining to the same business was developing in another part of the city.

"Do I get another dress?" Mrs. Jackson asked as the famous curmudgeon entered the dining-room Thursday evening.

"You do," he growled. "I'll be hanged if I understand it."

"It's too bad," Mrs. Jackson began.

The curmudgeon held up his finger. "Stop right where you are. I know what you're going to say." He growled out the accustomed formula: "'You'd give me dresses all day long and diamonds and a magnificent house, but you don't give me what is dearest in the world. I want to go with the people I 'm fit to go with!' In the future, just to save time, cross your fingers and I'll know you mean formula number two."

"But Mr. Skinner," Mrs. Jackson persisted.

The curmudgeon cut her short. "What's Skinner got to do with it?"

"Got to do with it? Why, he's a regular missing link!"

"Missing link?" Jackson looked at her in surprise. "Have you seen him?"

"I don't mean that – I mean connecting link."

"Some difference," Jackson grunted.

"If you hadn't gone and broken with McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc."

"That's enough. It's too late now. I don't want to hear anything more about it."

Mrs. Jackson said nothing. She knew that silence at such a time was her most effective weapon. Jackson waited for her to speak, but as she did not speak he immediately felt sorry that he'd been short with her. She was the only person in the world he really cared for. But he must show no outward sign of weakness, so he repeated, "It's too late now, I tell you!"

But, being a resourceful man, Jackson never considered anything too late. He would never take defeat for granted until he should be in his coffin. As a matter of fact, he had often regretted that he had broken with McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc. If it had n't been for that fresh salesman, Briggs, he never would have. And after he had broken with them, his stupid obstinacy had stood in the way of resuming friendly relations, for McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc., had always delivered the goods.

CHAPTER X
SKINNER LANDS A CURMUDGEON

With his head full of these reflections but without any definite method to accomplish a rather indefinite purpose, Jackson strolled into the lobby of The Hotel the next morning.

"Who is this Skinner that was interviewed?" he asked the chief clerk, whom he had known for a long time.

Glibly the clerk recounted to Jackson all he knew about their guest, who had suddenly become illustrious through the magic touch of the J. Matthews Wilkinsons.

"Point him out to me," said Jackson. "I always like to look over these Eastern guys that know so much that ain't so about us Middle West people."

"The Skinners don't get down to breakfast before ten," said the clerk.

An hour later Jackson strolled in casually and took a chair opposite the desk. Here was an opportunity for the clerk, an opportunity which Jackson had arranged for him without his knowing it. He passed around from behind the desk and intercepted Skinner as he and Honey were about to step into the elevator.

"Mr. Skinner," he said, "I'd like you to meet one of our prominent citizens." He led Skinner over to where the curmudgeon was sitting. "Mr. Skinner, I want you to shake hands with Mr. Willard Jackson."

"How do you do, Mr. Skinner?" said Jackson, rather reservedly; for now that the game was going the way he had designed it should go, he wanted to make it appear that the clerk, and not he, had taken the initiative.

"I'm very glad to meet you, Mr. Jackson," said Skinner, with his accustomed cordiality.

"I saw your little squib in the paper," said Jackson. "You must belong to the Boost Club."

"It never does any harm to tell pleasant truths," said Skinner.

Presently Jackson remarked, "You're with McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc., I see."

"You know them?"

"Why, yes. I'm Willard Jackson."

"Oh, yes," laughed Skinner, "how stupid of me. Of course I know. Certainly I know." He caught Jackson's coat and drew him over and added confidentially, "I'm a little bit abstracted. You see, this is a kind of junketing expedition. Just what they said in the paper – a belated honeymoon. I've never had a chance before, and I'm devoting my whole time to giving the wife a good time." He pulled out his watch. "Say, you'll excuse me. We've got a date."

"Of course," said Jackson.

Skinner grasped Jackson's hand cordially. "Say, won't you run in again and have a chat? I'm awfully glad to have met you."

"Well, I'll be jiggered," said Jackson to himself as he left The Hotel. Anyhow, he reflected, as he walked downtown to his office, he'd taken the first step, he'd broken the ice. It had gone against the grain to do it, but it was entirely on the wife's account. He'd let Skinner take the next step. He'd be darned if he would.

But as usual in social matters, the woman's domain entirely, the man in the case reckoned without his host!

For two whole days Jackson waited in his office for Skinner to appear – waited in vain. He dreaded going home to dinner, dreaded formula number two. Each night he half determined to 'phone some excuse and dine at the club, but put the suggestion aside as petty, shirking. However, nothing was said at dinner by the good Mrs. Curmudgeon, and Jackson began to feel that the incident was closed.

If only the departure, the sudden departure, of Skinner would be as conspicuously recorded as his advent had been, what a relief it would be. Nothing further appeared in the papers about Skinner, however, and Jackson was flattering himself that that gentleman had folded his tent like the Arab. A great calm prevailed in the heart of Jackson. But this proved to be only a weather-breeder.

Sunday morning when Jackson entered the breakfast room, he found his wife in tears. "Look," she cried, holding up the paper and pointing to the great headline.

"What's the matter? Some accident? Somebody dead?"

"I should say not! Somebody's very much alive! We're the dead ones!"

Jackson took the paper from her hand and read: "Important Social Event. The West dines the East. Mr. and Mrs. J. Matthews Wilkinson entertain at a quiet, select dinner Mr. and Mrs. William Manning Skinner, of New York. The dinner guests were Mr. and Mrs. Philip Armitage, Mr. and Mrs. Almeric Baird, Mr. and Mrs. Jack Wendell – "

Jackson put the paper down. Somehow he felt guilty. He avoided his wife's reproachful eyes. But he did n't dare cover up his ears, and the ear is not always so successful at avoiding as the eye. The eye can see only straight ahead, but the ear can hear from all around.

"Think of it," sniffled Mrs. Jackson, her sniffle developing into a blubber as she went on. "I'm not a snob, but why can't I go with those people? We've got lots of money! I want to see the best kind of life, but I've never had the chance, and now these Skinners come here, are taken up, – wined and dined, – and we're left out in the cold!"

"How can I help that?" Jackson grunted. But he knew what was coming and it came.

"You could have helped it. Traded with McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc., for years and then broke off – spoiled this chance!"

"How the deuce could I see two years ahead and know that Skinner was coming out here?" Jackson snapped. "Besides, he could n't have got us an invitation to that dinner anyhow!"

"The Wilkinsons have taken him up. They've established his social status. It was n't a public dinner, such as a politician gives to another politician; it was n't an automobile ride or a club affair. It was a private dinner, very private! They introduced him to the select few, the inner circle, – him and his wife, – his wife!!" she wailed.

"But what does that lead to?"

"We might not go there, but we could have had the Skinners here."

"What good would that do? It would n't put you in direct touch with the Wilkinsons, even if you did have the Skinners here."

"No, but it would help. The J. Matthews Wilkinsons dine them one day, the Willard Jacksons dine them another day. See – the connecting link?"

"Oh, damn these social distinctions," said Jackson. "It's you women that make 'em. We men don't!"

"I can't eat any breakfast," Mrs. Jackson sobbed. "I'm too upset. I must go to my room!"

Jackson did n't eat much breakfast either. When his wife had gone, he threw the paper to the floor and kicked it under the table, then he jammed his hat on to his head, and with a whole mass of profanity bubbling and boiling within him, he left the house. In the calm that succeeded the storm within, Jackson reflected that his present domestic tranquillity was threatened by the presence of these Skinners, and not only that, but their coming, if he could not avail of it, would be a source of reproach for years to come. Being something of a bookkeeper, he figured out that if, on the one hand, he might be compelled to eat a bit of humble pie, – not customarily a part of the curmudgeon's diet, – on the other hand, he would gain perhaps years of immunity from reproaches and twitting.

Many times he passed and re-passed The Hotel, first with a grim determination to go in, and then with as grim a determination not to go in. But at last his wife's troubled, haunting eyes won, as they always did, and he went in.

Jackson waited an hour before Skinner appeared. Skinner had reckoned that about that time the curmudgeon would be lounging around downstairs, waiting to meet him quite accidentally, so he permitted himself a cigar and a stroll in the office, which stroll was made to appear casual.

The curmudgeon had disposed himself in a huge armchair, which commanded a view of the elevator, and no sooner did he see Skinner emerge than he busied himself assiduously staring at, but not perceiving, the pages of the Sunday magazine section. With equal assiduity, Skinner, who as soon as he had left the elevator had observed Jackson, avoided seeing him, although he clearly perceived him.

Thus they played at cross-purposes for a while, these two overgrown boys.

"Hello," said Jackson, looking up from his paper as Skinner strolled past for the fourth time. "You here yet?"

"I hate to tear myself away," said Skinner. "Have a cigar?"

Jackson took the weed and indicated a chair next his own.

"By Jove," said Skinner, seating himself and crossing his legs comfortably, "I like this town. Wonderful climate, fine people – and" – he turned to Jackson – "devilish good grub."

"Have you had a trout dinner yet?" said Jackson.

"Yes. Out at the Lake the other day."

"I mean a real one – cooked by a real cook – all the trimmings."

"No, I can't say that I have."

Jackson paused, drummed on the arm of his chair, and swallowed hard. "I've got the best cook in the Middle West," he observed.

"That's going some."

"You think you've eaten, don't you? Well, you haven't. You ought to try my cook."

"That would be fine," said Skinner.

Skinner knew exactly what Jackson would say next. It was wonderful, he thought, almost uncanny, how the curmudgeon was doing just what he had schemed out that he would do – willed him to do. He felt like a magician operating the wires for some manikin to dance at the other end or a hypnotist directing a subject.

Things were going swimmingly for Jackson, too. He felt that he had executed his little scheme very well, without any danger of being found out or even suspected, yet he had never known things to fall in line as they were doing now. Still, he flattered himself it was good management. For Jackson was not a believer in luck.

"How long are you going to stay here?" he asked abruptly.

"Tuesday morning."

"You and the Missus had better come out and try that cook of mine before you go."

Jackson affected indifference, but his heart was beating high, higher than it had beaten for years, for he was a man that had always had his own way, and was not given to argument or diplomatic finessing. Having shot his bolt, Jackson waited.

Skinner turned in his chair. "That's mighty good of you, old chap," he said cordially. "You're just like these other hospitable Westerners. You've bragged about your cook and you want to show me that you can make good. But I'll let you off – I'll take your word for it this time."

"I don't want you to take my word for it," Jackson retorted. "Besides, I'd like to have your wife meet my wife!"

"So would I," said Skinner. He paused a moment.

Right here was the bit of humble pie that Jackson had prepared to eat, if necessary, but taken from the hand of a cordial fellow like Skinner, it would n't be so hard, after all.

"Skinner, you 're a good fellow – so am I a good fellow. I like you. There's no reason why we should n't be friends – personally – you understand."