all in one, and incidentally the abode of the station-agent, whose duties included that of postmaster and operator.
“I’ll write a letter first,” said Briggs. And this is what he wrote:
Dear Wayne: Do you remember that tract of land, adjoining your preserve, which you attempted to buy four years ago? It was held by a crank community, and they refused to sell, and made trouble for your patrols by dumping dye-stuffs and sawdust into the Ashton Creek.
Well, the community has broken up, the shops are in ruins, and there is nobody there now except that bankrupt poet, Guilford. I bought the mortgage for you, foreseeing a slump in that sort of art, and I expect to begin foreclosure proceedings and buy in the tract, which, as you will recollect, includes some fine game cover and the Ashton stream, where you wanted to establish a hatchery. This is a God-forsaken spot. I’m on my way to the poet’s now. Shall I begin foreclosure proceedings and fire him? Wire me what to do.
Wayne received this letter two days later. Preoccupied as he was in fitting out his yacht for commission, he wired briefly, “Fire poet,” and dismissed the matter from his mind.
The next day, grappling with the problem of Japanese stewards and the decadence of all sailormen, he received a telegram from Briggs:
“Can’t you manage to come up here?”
Irritated, he telegraphed back:
“Impossible. Why don’t you arrange to fire poet?” And Briggs replied: “Can’t fire poet. There are extenuating circumstances.”
“Did you say exterminating or extenuating?” wired Wayne. “I said extenuating,” replied Briggs.
Then the following telegrams were exchanged in order:
What are the extenuating circumstances?
Eight innocent children. Come up at once.
Boat in commission. Can’t go. Why don’t you fix things?
How?
What on earth is the matter with you? Are you going to fix things and join me at Bar Harbor or are you not?
As I don’t know how you want me to fix things, I can not join you.
Stuyvesant Briggs, what the devil is the matter with you? It’s absolutely necessary that I have the Ashton stream for a hatchery, and you know it. What sort of a business man are you, anyhow? Of course I don’t propose to treat that poet inhumanly. Arrange to bid in the tract, run up the price against your own bidding, and let the poet have a few thousand if he is hard put. Don’t worry me any more; I’m busy with a fool crew, and you are spoiling my cruise by not joining me.
He won’t do it.
Who won’t do what?
Poet refuses to discuss the matter.
Fire that poet. You’ve spoiled my cruise with your telegrams.
(Marked “Collect.”)
Look here, George Wayne, don’t drive me to desperation. You ought to come up and face the situation yourself. I can’t fire a poet with eight helpless children, can I? And while I’m about it, let me inform you that every time you telegraph me it costs me five dollars for a carrier to bring the despatch over from the station; and every time I telegraph you I am obliged to walk five miles to send it and five miles back again. I’m mad all through, and my shoes are worn out, and I’m tired. Besides, I’m too busy to telegraph.
Do you expect me to stop my cruise and travel up to that hole on account of eight extenuating kids?
I do.
Are you mad?
Thoroughly. And extremely busy.
For the last time, Stuyve Briggs, are you going to bounce one defaulting poet and progeny, arrange to have survey and warnings posted, order timber and troughs for hatchery, engage extra patrol—or are you not?
No.
(Received a day later by Mr. Wayne.)
Are you coming?
I’m coming to punch your head.
II
WHEN George Wayne arrived at Rose-Cross station, seaburnt, angry, and in excellent athletic condition, Briggs locked himself in the waiting-room and attempted to calm the newcomer from the window.
“If you’re going to pitch into me, George,” he said, “I’m hanged if I come out, and you can go to Guilford’s alone.”
“Come out of there,” said Wayne dangerously.
“It isn’t because I’m afraid of you,” explained Briggs, “but it’s merely that I don’t choose to present either you or myself to a lot of pretty girls with the marks of conflict all over our eyes and noses.”
At the words “pretty girls” Wayne’s battle-set features relaxed. He motioned to the Pullman porter to deposit his luggage on the empty platform; the melancholy bell-notes of the locomotive sounded, the train moved slowly forward.
“Pretty girls?” he repeated in a softer voice. “Where are they staying? Of course, under the circumstances a personal encounter is superfluous. Where are they staying?”
“At Guilford’s. I told you so in my telegrams, didn’t I?”
“No, you didn’t. You spoke only of a poet and his eight helpless children.”
“Well, those girls are the eight children,” retorted Briggs sullenly, emerging from the station.
“Do you mean to tell me–”
“Yes, I do. They’re his children, aren’t they—even if they are girls, and pretty.” He offered a mollifying hand; Wayne took it, shook it uncertainly, and fell into step beside his friend. “Eight pretty girls,” he repeated under his breath. “What did you do, Stuyve?”
“What was I to do?” inquired Briggs, nervously worrying his short blond mustache. “When I arrived here I had made up my mind to fire the poet and arrange for the hatchery and patrol. The farther I walked through the dust of this accursed road, lugging my suit-case as you are doing now, the surer I was that I’d get rid of the poet without mercy. But–”
“Well?” inquired Wayne, astonished.
“But when I’d trudged some five miles up the stifling road I suddenly emerged into a wonderful mountain meadow. I tell you, George, it looked fresh and sweet as Heaven after that dusty, parching tramp—a mountain meadow deep with mint and juicy green grasses, and all cut up by little rushing streams as cold as ice. There were a lot of girls in pink sunbonnets