LITMIR.BIZ

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goin’ to let some folks around here know what kind of a feller Dave Beasley really is; yes, and I’m goin’ to show George Dowden he can’t laugh at me!”

      “You’re going to show Mr. Dowden?” I said. “You mean you’re going to take him on this expedition, too?”

      “Take him!” Mr. Peck emitted an acrid bark of laughter. “I guess he’s at Beasley’s, all right.”

      “No, he isn’t; he’s at home—at Mrs. Apperthwaite’s—playing cards.”

      “What!”

      “I happen to know that he’ll be there all evening.”

      Mr. Peck smote his palms together. “Grist!” he called, over his shoulder, and his colleague struggled forward. “Listen to this: even Dowden ain’t at Beasley’s. Ain’t the Lord workin’ fer us tonight!”

      “Why don’t you take Dowden with you,” I urged, “if there’s anything you want to show him?”

      “By George, I will!” shouted Peck. “I’ve got him where the hair’s short now!”

      “That’s right,” said Grist.

      “Gentlemen”—Peck turned to the others—“when we git to Mrs. Apperthwaite’s, jest stop outside along the fence a minute. I recken we’ll pick up a recruit.”

      Shivering, we took up our way again in single file, stumbling through drifts that had deepened incredibly within the hour. The wind was straight against us, and so stingingly sharp and so laden with the driving snow that when we reached Mrs. Apperthwaite’s gate (which we approached from the north, not passing Beasley’s) my eyes were so full of smarting tears I could see only blurred planes of light dancing vaguely in the darkness, instead of brightly lit windows.

      “Now,” said Peck, panting and turning his back to the wind; “the rest of you gentlemen wait out here. You two newspaper men, you come with me.”

      He opened the gate and went in, the “Journal” reporter and I following—all three of us wiping our half-blinded eyes. When we reached the shelter of the front porch, I took the key from my pocket and opened the door.

      “I live here,” I explained to Mr. Peck.

      “All right,” he said. “Jest step in and tell George Dowden that Sim Peck’s out here and wants to see him at the door a minute. Be quick.”

      I went into the library, and there sat Dowden contemplatively playing bridge with two of the elderly ladies and Miss Apperthwaite. The last-mentioned person quite took my breath away.

      In honor of the Christmas Eve (I supposed) she wore an evening dress of black lace, and the only word for what she looked has suffered such misuse that one hesitates over it: yet that is what she was—regal—and no less! There was a sort of splendor about her. It detracted nothing from this that her expression was a little sad: something not uncommon with her lately; a certain melancholy, faint but detectable, like breath on a mirror. I had attributed it to Jean Valjean, though perhaps tonight it might have been due merely to bridge.

      “What is it?” asked Dowden, when, after an apology for disturbing the game, I had drawn him out in the hall.

      I motioned toward the front door. “Simeon Peck. He thinks he’s got something on Mr. Beasley. He’s waiting to see you.”

      Dowden uttered a sharp, half-coherent exclamation and stepped quickly to the door. “Peck!” he said, as he jerked it open.

      “Oh, I’m here!” declared that gentleman, stepping into view. “I’ve come around to let you know that you couldn’t laugh like a horse at me no more, George Dowden! So you weren’t invited, either.”

      “Invited?” said Dowden, “Where?”

      “Over to the ball your friend is givin’.”

      “What friend?”

      “Dave Beasley. So you ain’t quite good enough to dance with his high-society friends!”

      “What are you talking about?” Dowden demanded, impatiently.

      “I reckon you won’t be quite so strong fer Beasley,” responded Peck, with a vindictive little giggle, “when you find he can use you in his business, but when it comes to entertainin’—oh no, you ain’t quite the boy!”

      “I’d appreciate your explaining,” said Dowden. “It’s kind of cold standing here.”

      Peck laughed shrilly. “Then I reckon you better git your hat and coat and come along. Can’t do us no harm, and might be an eye-opener fer you. Grist and Gus Schulmeyer and Hank Cullop’s waitin’ out yonder at the gate. We be’n havin’ kind of a consultation at my house over somep’n’ Grist seen at Beasley’s a little earlier in the evening.”

      “What did Grist see?”

      “Hacks! Hacks drivin’ up to Beasley’s house—a whole lot of ’em. Grist was down the street a piece, and it was pretty dark, but he could see the lamps and hear the doors slam as the people got out. Besides, the whole place is lit up from cellar to attic. Grist come on to my house and told me about it, and I begun usin’ the telephone; called up all the men that count in the party—found most of ’em at home, too. I ast ’em if they was invited to this ball tonight; and not a one of ’em was. They’re only in politics; they ain’t high society enough to be ast to Mr. Beasley’s dancin’-parties! But I would ’a’ thought he’d let you in—anyways fer the second table!” Mr. Peck shrilled out his acrid and exultant laugh again. “I got these fellers from the newspapers, and all I want is to git this here ball in print tomorrow, and see what the boys that do the work at the primaries have to say about it—and what their wives’ll say about the man that’s too high-toned to have ’em in his house. I’ll bet Beasley thought he was goin’ to keep these doin’s quiet; afraid the farmers might not believe he’s jest the plain man he sets up to be—afraid that folks like you that ain’t invited might turn against him. I’ll fool him! We’re goin’ to see what there is to see, and I’m goin’ to have these boys from the newspapers write a full account of it. If you want to come along, I expect it’ll do you a power o’ good.”

      “I’ll go,” said Dowden, quickly. He got his coat and hat from a table in the hall, and we rejoined the huddled and shivering group at the gate.

      “Got my recruit, gents!” shrilled Peck, slapping Dowden boisterously on the shoulders. “I reckon he’ll git a change of heart tonight!”

      And now, sheltering my eyes from the stinging wind, I saw what I had been too blind to see as we approached Mrs. Apperthwaite’s. Beasley’s house was illuminated; every window, up stairs and down, was aglow with rosy light. That was luminously evident, although the shades were lowered.

      “Look at that!” Peck turned to Dowden, giggling triumphantly. “Wha’d I tell you! How do you feel about it now?”

      “But where are the hacks?” asked Dowden, gravely.

      “Folks all come,” answered Mr. Peck, with complete assurance. “Won’t be no more hacks till they begin to go home.”

      We plunged ahead as far as the corner of Beasley’s fence, where Peck stopped us again, and we drew together, slapping our hands and stamping our feet. Peck was delighted—a thoroughly happy man; his sour giggle of exultation had become continuous, and the same jovial break was audible in Grist’s voice as he said to the Journal reporter and me:

      “Go ahead, boys. Git your story. We’ll wait here fer you.”

      The Journal reporter started toward the gate; he had gone, perhaps, twenty feet when Simeon Peck whistled in sharp warning. The reporter stopped short in his tracks.

      Beasley’s front door was thrown open, and there stood Beasley himself in evening dress, bowing and smiling, but not at us, for he did not see us. The bright hall behind him was beautiful with evergreen streamers and wreaths,

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