The of Mr. Peter Pett, the well-known financier, on Riverside Drive is one of the leading of that and boulevard. As you pass by in your limousine, or while ten of fresh air on top of a green omnibus, it jumps out and at you. Architects, with it, and up their hands defensively, and the has a of shock. The place in almost equal a cathedral, a villa, a hotel and a Chinese pagoda. Many of its are of glass, and above the two terra-cotta lions, more than the animals which New York's Public Library. It is a house which is to overlook: and it was for this that Mrs. Pett on her husband it, for she was a woman who liked to be noticed.
Through the rich of this Mr. Pett, its nominal proprietor, was like a spirit. The hour was about ten of a Sunday morning, but the Sabbath which was upon the house had not itself to him. There was a look of on his patient face, and a oath, up no on the Stock Exchange, his lips.
"Darn it!"
He was by a of the of his position. It was not as if he much from life. He asked but little here below. At that moment all that he wanted was a spot where he might read his Sunday paper in peace, and he not one. Intruders every door. The place was congested.
This of thing had been and since his marriage two years previously. There was a in Mrs. Pett's system. She not only herself—the name Nesta Ford Pett is familiar to all lovers of fiction—but at a salon. Starting, in of this aim, with a single specimen,—her nephew, Willie Partridge, who was on a new which would war—she had added to her collections, until now she gave her terra-cotta to no than six and geniuses. Six youths, mostly who had not yet started and who were about to begin, up Mr. Pett's rooms on this June morning, while he, his Sunday paper, about, finding, like the in Genesis, no rest. It was at such times that he was almost to his wife's husband, a friend of his named Elmer Ford, who had of an seizure: and the which he for the to shift its focus.
Marriage had life for Mr. Pett, as it for the man who fifty years trying it. In to the geniuses, Mrs. Pett had with her to her new home her only son, Ogden, a fourteen-year-old boy of a type. Years of grown-up and the of anything had him a precocity on which the of a series of private had themselves in vain. They came, full of and self-confidence, to retire after a interval, by the boy's to education in any or shape. To Mr. Pett, at his with boys, Ogden Ford was a irritant. He his stepson's personality, and he more than him of his cigarettes. It was an additional that he was aware of the of him at it.
Mr. Pett his journey. He had it for a moment to at the door of the morning-room, but, a in a high voice about the Christianity of the Shelley through the oak, he had moved on.
Silence from another door the passage him to place his on the handle, but a from an piano him remove them swiftly. He on, and a minutes later the of had him to what was his own private library—a large, room full of old books, of which his father had been a great collector. Mr. Pett did not read old books himself, but he liked to be among them, and it is proof of his pessimism that he had not the library first. To his mind it had possible that there be nobody there.
He the door, tensely. He nothing. He in, and for an that which only comes to of who in a house full of their themselves alone at last. Then a voice spoke, his of solitude.
"Hello, pop!"
Ogden Ford was in a chair in the shadows.
"Come in, pop, come in. Lots of room."
Mr. Pett in the doorway, his step-son with a eye. He the boy's of easy patronage, all the to with philosophic at the present moment from the that the was in his chair. Even from an point of view the of the child him. Ogden Ford was and and looked overfed. He had the plethoric of one to is a and the of the candy-fiend. Even now, a hour after breakfast, his were moving with a rhythmical, motion.
"What are you eating, boy?" Mr. Pett, his to irritability.
"Candy."
"I wish you would not eat all day."
"Mother gave it to me," said Ogden simply. As he had anticipated, the the enemy's battery. Mr. Pett grunted, but no comment. Ogden his victory by another piece of in his mouth.
"Got a this morning, haven't you, pop?"
"I will not be spoken to like that!"
"I you had," said his step-son complacently. "I can always tell. I don't see why you want to come on me, though. I've done nothing."
Mr. Pett was suspiciously.
"You've been smoking."
"Me!!"
"Smoking cigarettes."
"No, sir!"
"There are two in the ash-tray."
"I didn't put them there."
"One of them is warm."
"It's a warm day."
"You it there when you me come in."
"No, sir! I've only been here a minutes. I one of the was in here me. They're always your coffin-nails. You ought to do something about it, pop. You ought to yourself."
A of came upon Mr. Pett. For the thousandth time he himself by this calm, goggle-eyed boy who him with such coolness.
"You ought to be out in the open air this morning," he said feebly.
"All right. Let's go for a walk. I will if you will."
"I—I have other to do," said Mr. Pett, from the prospect.
"Well, this fresh-air is anyway. Where's the of having a home if you don't stop in it?"
"When I was your age, I would have been out on a like this—er—bowling my hoop."
"And look at you now!"
"What do you mean?"
"Martyr to lumbago."
"I am not a to lumbago," said Mr. Pett, who was on the subject.
"Have it your own way. All I know is—"
"Never mind!"
"I'm only saying what mother . . ."
"Be quiet!"
Ogden in the box.
"Have some, pop?"
"No."
"Quite right. Got to be at your age."
"What do you mean?"
"Getting on, you know. Not so as you used to be. Come in, pop, if you're in. There's a from that door."
Mr. Pett retired, fermenting. He how another man would have this situation. The of the him. Why should he be a totally different man on Riverside Drive from the person he was in Pine Street? Why should he be able to his own in Pine Street with men—whiskered, square-jawed financiers—and yet be unable on Riverside Drive to a fourteen-year-old boy from an easy chair? It to him sometimes that a of the will came over him out of hours.
Meanwhile, he had still to a place where he read his Sunday paper.
He for a while in thought. Then his cleared, and he to the stairs. Reaching the top floor, he walked along the passage and on a door at the end of it. From this door, as from those below, proceeded, but this time they did not to Mr. Pett. It was the of a that he heard, and he to it with an air of approval. He loved to the of a typewriter: it home so like the office.
"Come in," called a girl's voice.
The room in which Mr. Pett himself was small but cosy, and its cosiness—oddly, the of its owner—had that quality which as a to the of men. A large almost one of it, its and and at entered. The were with prints, and arranged. Through a window to the left, open at the bottom, the sun in, with it the of out on the Drive. At a at right to this window, her red-gold in the from the river, sat the girl who had been at the typewriter. She as Mr. Pett entered, and over her shoulder.
Ann Chester, Mr. Pett's niece, looked her best when she smiled. Although her was the most of her appearance, her mouth was the most thing about her. It was a mouth that possibilities. In repose, it had a look of having just saying something humorous, a of of itself. When it smiled, a of white teeth out: or, if the did not part, a appeared on the right cheek, the whole an air of geniality. It was an enterprising, of mouth, the mouth of one who would lead with a or plot against convention. In its and in the line of the it there lurked, too, more than a hint of imperiousness. A would have gathered, correctly, that Ann Chester liked having her own way and was to it.
"Hello, uncle Peter," she said. "What's the trouble?"
"Am I you, Ann?"
"Not a bit. I'm only out a for aunt Nesta. I promised her I would. Would you like to some of it?"
Mr. Pett said he would not.
"You're missing a good thing," said Ann, the pages. "I'm all up over it. It's called 'At Dead of Night,' and it's full of and everything. You would think aunt Nesta had such a imagination. There are and in it and all of luxuries. I it's the of reading it, but you look to me as if you were something. You've got a of air."
Mr. Pett's into what was to be a smile.
"I'm only a place to read in. I saw such a place as this house. It looks big for a regiment. Yet, when you're inside, there's a or something in every room."
"What about the library? Isn't that to you?"
"The boy Ogden's there."
"What a shame!"
"Wallowing in my best chair," said Mr. Pett morosely. "Smoking cigarettes."
"Smoking? I he had promised aunt Nesta he wouldn't smoke."
"Well, he said he wasn't, of course, but I know he had been. I don't know what to do with that boy. It's no good my talking to him. He—he patronises me!" Mr. Pett indignantly. "Sits there on his with his on the table and talks to me with his mouth full of as if I were his grandson."
"Little brute."
Ann was sorry for Mr. Pett. For many years now, since the death of her mother, they had been inseparable. Her father, who was a traveller, explorer, big-game hunter, and in the and of the world and paid only visits to New York, had left her almost in Mr. Pett's care, and all her memories were with him. Mr. Chester's was in many an character, but not a one; and his relations with his were for the most part to and presents. In the past years she had come almost to Mr. Pett in the light of a father. Hers was a nature to kindness; and Mr. Pett being was also she as well as loved him. There was a in the financier, the of the boy who along in an world and can do anything right: and this quality called to the in her. She was at the age when we to right and the oppressed, and wild for the of her small world came to her. From the she had been a of the of her uncle's married life, and if Mr. Pett had asked her and himself to act on it he would have solved his in fashion. For Ann in her moments of had to that end which would have his with horror.
"I've a good many boys," she said, "but Ogden is in a class by himself. He ought to be sent to a boarding-school, of course."
"He ought to be sent to Sing-Sing," Mr. Pett.
"Why don't you send him to school?"
"Your aunt wouldn't of it. She's of his being kidnapped. It last time he to school. You can't her for wanting to keep her on him after that."
Ann ran her over the keys.
"I've sometimes . . ."
"Yes?"
"Oh, nothing. I must on with this thing for aunt Nesta."
Mr. Pett the of the Sunday paper on the him, and to an over the supplement. That in him which him to Ann always him to open his Sabbath reading in this fashion. Grey-headed though he was, he still in art and in life a taste for the slapstick. No one had the pure it had him when Raymond Green, his wife's protege, had over a stair-rod one and an entire flight.
From some point the came a thudding. Ann stopped her work to listen.
"There's Jerry Mitchell the bag."
"Eh?" said Mr. Pett.
"I only said I Jerry Mitchell in the gymnasium."
"Yes, he's there."
Ann looked out of the window for a moment. Then she in her swivel-chair.
"Uncle Peter."
Mr. Pett slowly from the supplement.
"Eh?"
"Did Jerry Mitchell tell you about that friend of his who a dogs' hospital on Long Island somewhere? I his name. Smithers or Smethurst or something. People—old ladies, you know, and people—bring him their dogs to be when they sick. He has an remedy, Jerry tells me. He makes a of money at it."
"Money?" Pett, the student, Pett, the financier, at the magic word. "There might be something in that if one got it. Dogs are fashionable. There would be a market for a good medicine."
"I'm you couldn't put Mr. Smethurst's on the market. It only when the dog has been himself and not taking any exercise."
"Well, that's all these dogs have the with them. It looks to me as if I might do with this man. I'll his address from Mitchell."
"It's no use of it, uncle Peter. You couldn't do with him—in that way. All Mr. Smethurst when any one him a fat, dog is to it next to nothing—just the of food, you know—and make it about a lot. And in about a week the dog's as well and happy and as he can possibly be."
"Oh," said Mr. Pett, disappointed.
Ann touched the keys of her machine softly.
"Why I mentioned Mr. Smethurst," she said, "it was we had been talking of Ogden. Don't you think his would be just what Ogden needs?"
Mr. Pett's gleamed.
"It's a he can't have a week or two of it!"
Ann played a little with her finger-tips on the desk.
"It would do him good, wouldn't it?"
Silence upon the room, only by the of the typewriter. Mr. Pett, having the supplement, to the section, for he was a of no order. The of did not permit him to see as many as he wish, but he the national closely on the printed page and had an for the Napoleonic gifts of Mr. McGraw which would have that had he of it.
"Uncle Peter," said Ann, again.
"Eh?"
"It's you should have been talking about Ogden kidnapped. This of aunt Nesta's is all about an angel-child—I it's meant to be Ogden—being and and all that. It's odd that she should like this. You wouldn't it of her."
"Your aunt," said Mr. Pett, "lets her mind on that of thing a good deal. She tells me there was a time, not so long ago, when the in America were after him. She sent him to in England—or, rather, her husband did. They were then—and, as as I can the story, they all took the next and the place."
"It's a somebody doesn't him away now and keep him till he's a boy."
"Ah!" said Mr. Pett wistfully.
Ann looked at him fixedly, but his were once more on his paper. She gave a little sigh, and to her work again.
"It's demoralising, aunt Nesta's stories," she said. "They put ideas into one's head."
Mr. Pett said nothing. He was reading an article of medical in the magazine section, for he was a man who through his Sunday paper, nothing. The again.
"Great Godfrey!"
Ann round, and at her uncle in concern. He was at the paper.
"What's the matter?"
The page on which Mr. Pett's attention was was with a picture in lines of a man in dress a woman along what appeared to be a restaurant supper-table. An time was being had by both. Across the page this ran:
PICCADILLY JIM ONCE MORE
The Recent Adventures of Young Mr. Crocker
of New York and London
It was not upon the title, however, upon the that Mr. Pett's rested. What he was looking at was a small of a photograph which had been in the of the article. It was the photograph of a woman in the early forties, handsome, which were printed the words:
Mrs. Nesta Ford Pett
Well-Known Society Leader and Authoress
Ann had and was over his shoulder. She as she of the of the page. Then her upon the photograph.
"Good gracious! Why have they got aunt Nesta's picture there?"
Mr. Pett a and breath.
"They've out she's his aunt. I was they would. I don't know what she will say when she sees this."
"Don't let her see it."
"She has the paper downstairs. She's reading it now."
Ann was through the article.
"It to be much the same of thing that they have published before. I can't why the Chronicle takes such an in Jimmy Crocker."
"Well, you see he used to be a newspaper man, and the Chronicle was the paper he for."
Ann flushed.
"I know," she said shortly.
Something in her Mr. Pett's attention.
"Yes, yes, of course," he said hastily. "I was forgetting."
There was an silence. Mr. Pett coughed. The of Mr. Crocker's with the New York Chronicle was one which they had to from mentioning.
"I didn't know he was your nephew, uncle Peter."
"Nephew by marriage," Mr. Pett a little hurriedly. "Nesta's sister Eugenia married his father."
"I that makes me a of cousin."
"A cousin."
"It can't be too for me."
There was a of the door. Mrs. Pett entered, a paper in her hand. She it Mr. Pett's face.
"I know, my dear," he said backing. "Ann and I were just talking about it."
The little photograph had not done Mrs. Pett justice. Seen life-size, she was and more than she appeared in reproduction. She was a large woman, with a and and eyes, and her into the of the room. She was the type of woman small, men to instinctively, as unable to help themselves as into a maelstrom.
"What are you going to do about it?" she demanded, into the chair which her husband had vacated.
This was an of the which had not to Mr. Pett. He had not the possibility of actually doing anything. Nature had him out of office hours a organism, and it was his tendency, when he himself in a sea of troubles, to plaintively, not to take arms against it. To up the and of and them was not a of his. He his and said nothing. He on saying nothing.
"If Eugenia had had any sense, she would have what would if she took the boy away from New York where he was too hard to into and let him in London with too much money and nothing to do. But, if she had had any sense, she would have married that Crocker man. As I told her."
Mrs. Pett paused, and her with fire. She was the which had taken place three years ago her sister and herself, when Eugenia had told her of her to an and middle-aged actor named Bingley Crocker. Mrs. Pett had Bingley Crocker, but she had the match in terms which had ended definitely and her relations with her sister. Eugenia was not a woman who of her actions. She was in the same as Mrs. Pett and her in and character.
Mrs. Pett returned to the present. The past look after itself. The present surgery.
"One would have it would have been to Eugenia that a boy of twenty-one needed regular work."
Mr. Pett was to come out of his here. He was the Apostle of Work, and this pleased him.
"That's right," he said. "Every boy ought to have work."
"Look at this Crocker's record since he to live in London. He is always doing something to make himself notorious. There was that breach-of-promise case, and that at the political meeting, and his at Monte Carlo, and—and everything. And he must be himself to death. I think Eugenia's insane. She to have no over him at all."
Mr. Pett sympathetically.
"And now the papers have out that I am his aunt, and I they will print my photograph they an article about him."
She and sat with just wrath. Mr. Pett, who always his as these monologues, that a from him was indicated.
"It's tough," he said.
Mrs. Pett on him like a tigress.
"What is the use of saying that? It's no use saying anything."
"No, no," said Mr. Pett, from pointing out that she had already said a good deal.
"You must do something."
Ann entered the for the time. She was not very of her aunt, and liked her least when she was Mr. Pett. There was something in Mrs. Pett's with which the which Ann's the world was at war.
"What can uncle Peter possibly do?" she inquired.
"Why, the boy to America and make him work. It's the only possible thing."
"But is it possible?"
"Of it is."
"Assuming that Jimmy Crocker would accept an to come over to America, what of work he do here? He couldn't his place on the Chronicle again after out for all these years and making a public of himself all that while. And of newspaper work what is he fit for?"
"My dear child, don't make difficulties."
"I'm not. These are ready-made."
Mr. Pett interposed. He was always of a these two. Ann had red and the nature which goes with red hair. She was and quick of tongue, and—as he her father had always been—a little too for combat. She was as as she was pugnacious, like most of her colour. Her offer to type the which now on her had been the on just such a with her aunt as this promised to be. Mr. Pett had no wish to see the thus almost it had had time to operate.
"I give the boy a job in my office," he suggested.
Giving men jobs in his office was what Mr. Pett liked doing best. There were six in his house and with his food at that very moment he would have been to start down-town.
Notably his wife's nephew, Willie Partridge, he looked on as a loafer. He had a in the that was to war. He knew, as all the world did, that Willie's late father had been a great inventor, but he did not accept the that Willie had the man's genius. He the on Partridgite, as it was to be called, with the scepticism, and that the only thing Willie had or was likely to was a series of for in on other people's money.
"Exactly," said Mrs. Pett, at the suggestion. "The very thing."
"Will you and it?" said Mr. Pett, in the of commendation.
"What would be the use of writing? Eugenia would pay no attention. Besides, I not say all I to in a letter. No, the only thing is to go over to England and see her. I shall speak very to her. I shall point out what an it will be to the boy to be in your office and to live here. . . ."
Ann started.
"You don't live here—in this house?"
"Of course. There would be no in the boy all the way over from England if he was to be allowed to when he got here."
Mr. Pett deprecatingly.
"I don't think that would be very for Ann, dear."
"Why in the name of should Ann object?"
Ann moved the door.
"Thank you for of it, uncle Peter. You're always a dear. But don't worry about me. Do just as you want to. In any case I'm that you won't be able to him to come over here. You can see by the paper he's having too good a time in London. You can call Jimmy Crockers from the deep, but will they come when you call for them?"
Mrs. Pett looked at the door as it closed her, then at her husband.
"What do you mean, Peter, about Ann? Why wouldn't it be for her if this Crocker boy came to live with us?"
Mr. Pett hesitated.
"Well, it's like this, Nesta. I you won't tell her I told you. She's about it, girl. It all you and I were married. Ann was much then. You know what are, of and sentimental. It was my fault really, I ought to have . . ."
"Good Heavens, Peter! What are you trying to tell me?"
"She was only a child."
Mrs. Pett rose in slow horror.
"Peter! Tell me! Don't try to it gently."
"Ann a book of and I had it published for her."
Mrs. Pett in her chair.
"Oh!" she said—it would have been hard to say with or disappointment. "Whatever did you make such a for? Why did you want to be so mysterious?"
"It was all my fault, really," Mr. Pett. "I ought to have better. All I of at the time was that it would the child to see the in print and be able to give the book to her friends. She did give it to her friends," he on ruefully, "and since she's been trying to live it down. I've her bite a fellow's off when he to make a grand-stand play with her by her which he'd in his sister's book-shelf."
"But, in the name of goodness, what has all this to do with Crocker?"
"Why, it was this way. Most of the papers just gave Ann's book a mention among 'Volumes Received,' or a of lines that didn't amount to anything, but the Chronicle saw a Sunday in it, as Ann was going about a then and was a well-known girl. They sent this Crocker boy to an from her, all about her methods of work and and what not. We it wasn't the goods. Why, that very I an order for a hundred copies to be sent to me when the thing appeared. And—" pinkness came upon Mr. Pett at the "it was just a from start to finish. The a joke of the and what Ann had told him about her and of the just to kid the life out of them. . . . I Ann would over it. Well, it doesn't worry her any more—she's out of the school-girl stage—but you can she isn't going to up and give three and a tiger if you Crocker to live in the same house."
"Utterly ridiculous!" said Mrs. Pett. "I do not to my plans of a that years ago. We will sail on Wednesday."
"Very well, my dear," said Mr. Pett resignedly.
"Just as you say. Er—just you and I?"
"And Ogden, of course."
Mr. Pett a with a powerful of the will. He had this.
"I wouldn't of him here while I away, after what when dear Elmer sent him to in England that time." The late Mr. Ford had most of his married life either with or from his wife, but since death he had been as 'poor dear Elmer.' "Besides, the sea will do the good. He has not been looking at all well lately."
"If Ogden's coming, I'd like to take Ann."
"Why?"
"She can—" he for a euphemism.
"Keep in order" was the he to avoid. To his mind Ann was the only for Ogden, but he it would be to say so."—look after him on the boat," he concluded. "You know you are a sailor."
"Very well. Bring Ann—Oh, Peter, that me of what I wanted to say to you, which this thing in the paper out of my mind. Lord Wisbeach has asked Ann to him!"
Mr. Pett looked a little hurt. "She didn't tell me." Ann in him.
"She didn't tell me, either. Lord Wisbeach told me. He said Ann had promised to think it over, and give him his answer later. Meanwhile, he had come to me to himself that I approved. I that so of him."
Mr. Pett was frowning.
"She hasn't him?"
"Not definitely."
"I she doesn't."
"Don't be foolish, Peter. It would be an excellent match."
Mr. Pett his feet.
"I don't like him. There's something too about that fellow."
"If you that his manners are perfect, I agree with you. I shall do all in my power to Ann to accept him."
"I shouldn't," said Mr. Pett, with more than was his wont. "You know what Ann is if you try to her to do anything. She her ears and won't budge. Her father is just the same. When we were boys together, sometimes—"
"Don't be absurd, Peter. As if I should of trying to Ann to do anything."
"We don't know anything of this fellow. Two ago we didn't know he was on the earth."
"What do we need to know his name?"
Mr. Pett said nothing, but he was not convinced. The Lord Wisbeach under was a pleasant-spoken and man who had called at Mr. Pett's office a while to him about some money. He had a of from Hammond Chester, Ann's father, he had met in Canada, where the was at present in the mild of bass-fishing. With their talk the would have and finished, if Mr. Pett had been able to himself, for he had not taken a to Lord Wisbeach. But he was an American, with an American's of hospitality, and, the man being a friend of Hammond Chester, he had to him to Riverside Drive—with which were now, he felt, justified.
"Ann ought to marry," said Mrs. Pett. "She her own way too much now. However, it is her own affair, and there is nothing that we can do." She rose. "I only she will be sensible."
She out, Mr. Pett than she had him. He the idea of Ann marrying Lord Wisbeach, who, if he had had no at all, would be in that he would take her to live three thousand miles away in his own country. The of Ann Mr. Pett sorely.
Ann, meanwhile, had her way the passage to the which Mr. Pett, in the of his health, had to be in a large room at the end of the house—a room designed by the original owner, who had had leanings, for a studio. The tap-tap-tap of the leather had ceased, but voices from told her that Jerry Mitchell, Mr. Pett's private physical instructor, was still there. She who was his companion, and on opening the door that it was Ogden. The boy was against the and Jerry with a and which the was it hard to bear.
"Yes, sir!" Ogden was saying, as Ann entered. "I Biggs her to come for a joyride."
"I she him down," said Jerry Mitchell sullenly.
"I she didn't. Why should she? Biggs is an good-looking fellow."
"What are you talking about, Ogden?" said Ann.
"I was telling him that Biggs asked Celestine to go for a in the car with him."
"I'll his off," the Jerry.
Ogden laughed derisively.
"Yes, you will! Mother would fire you if you touched him. She wouldn't for having her up."
Jerry Mitchell an to Ann. Ogden's and his of Biggs' personal had him. He that, in his of Mrs. Pett's maid, Celestine, he was by his looks, which he had no illusions. No Adonis to with, he had been so and re-edited a long and ring career by the of a hundred that in of the he was to on and of manner. He to the old of who looked the part, and in these days of pugilists who he had the of an anachronism. He was a man with a round, solid head, small eyes, an jaw, and a nose which ill-treatment had to a scenario. A narrow of as a of buffer-state, his from his eyebrows, and he of the of his late employment, the ear. Yet was he a man of and a good citizen, and Ann had liked him from their meeting. As for Jerry, he Ann and would have done anything she asked him. Ever since he had that Ann was to to and with his on the of his wooing, he had been her slave.
Ann came to the in direct fashion.
"Get out, Ogden," she said.
Ogden to meet her mutinously, but failed. Why he should be of Ann he had been able to understand, but it was a that she was the only person of his he respected. She had a and a calm, which failed to him.
"Why?" he muttered. "You're not my boss."
"Be quick, Ogden."
"What's the big idea—ordering a fellow—"
"And close the door you," said Ann. She to Jerry, as the order was obeyed.
"Has he been you, Jerry?"
Jerry Mitchell his forehead.
"Say, if that kid don't in when I'm in the gym—You what he was saying about Maggie, Miss Ann?"
Celestine had been Maggie O'Toole, a name which Mrs. Pett to in any of hers.
"Why on earth do you pay any attention to him, Jerry? You must have that he was making it all up. He his whole time about till he some one he can torment, and then he himself. Maggie would of going out in the car with Biggs."
Jerry Mitchell a of relief.
"It's great for a to have you in his corner, Miss Ann."
Ann to the door and opened it. She looked the passage, then, satisfied as to its emptiness, returned to her seat.
"Jerry, I want to talk to you. I have an idea. Something I want you to do for me."
"Yes, Miss Ann?"
"We've got to do something about that child, Ogden. He's been uncle Peter again, and I'm not going to have it. I him once that, if he did it again, would to him, but he didn't me. I suppose, Jerry—what of a man is your friend, Mr. Smethurst?"
"Do you Smithers, Miss Ann?"
"I it was either Smithers or Smethurst. The dog man, I mean. Is he a man you can trust?"
"With my last buck. I've him since we were kids."
"I don't as money. I am going to send Ogden to him for treatment, and I want to know if I can on him to help me."
"For the love of Mike."
Jerry Mitchell, after an of bewilderment, was looking at her with admiration. He had always that Miss Ann a mind of no common order, but this, he felt, was genius. For a moment the of the idea took his away.
"Do you that you're going to him, Miss Ann?"
"Yes. That is to say, you are—if I can you to do it for me."
"Sneak him away and send him to Bud Smithers' dog-hospital?"
"For treatment. I like Mr. Smithers' methods. I think they would do Ogden all the good in the world."
Jerry was enthusiastic.
"Why, Bud would make him part-human. But, say, isn't it taking big chances? Kidnapping's a penitentiary offence."
"This isn't that of kidnapping."
"Well, it's like it."
"I don't think you need be of the penitentiary. I can't see aunt Nesta prosecuting, when it would that she would have to us with having sent Ogden to a dogs' hospital. She publicity, but it has to be the right of publicity. No, we do a risk, but it isn't that one. You the of your job here, and I should be sent to my for an sentence. You've my grandmother, have you, Jerry? She's the only person in the world I'm of! She miles from and has family prayers at seven-thirty every morning. Well, I'm to her, if you're to your job, in such a good cause. You know you're just as of uncle Peter as I am, and Ogden is him into a breakdown. Surely you won't to help me, Jerry?"
Jerry rose and a hand.
"When do we start?"
Ann the hand warmly.
"Thank you, Jerry. You're a jewel. I Maggie. Well, I don't think we can do anything till they come from England, as aunt Nesta is sure to take Ogden with her."
"Who's going to England?"
"Uncle Peter and aunt Nesta were talking just now of to try and a man named Crocker to come here."
"Crocker? Jimmy Crocker? Piccadilly Jim?"
"Yes. Why, do you know him?"
"I used to meet him sometimes when he was on the Chronicle here. Looks as if he was a wide in dear old London. Did you see the paper to-day?"
"Yes, that's what aunt Nesta want to him over. Of course, there isn't the that she will be able to make him come. Why should he come?"
"Last time I saw Jimmy Crocker," said Jerry, "it was a of years ago, when I over to train Eddie Flynn for his go with Porky Jones at the National. I into him at the N. S. C. He was a good tanked."
"He's always drinking, I believe."
"He took me to supper at some joint where they all had the soup-and-fish on but me. I like a dirty in a clean deck. He used to be a regular fellow, Jimmy Crocker, but from what you read in the papers it to look as if he was it up too swift. It's always the way with those boys when you take them off a job and let them around with their full of mazuma."
"That's why I want to do something about Ogden. If he's allowed to go on as he is at present, he will up like Jimmy Crocker."
"Aw, Jimmy Crocker ain't in Ogden's class," Jerry.
"Yes, he is. There's no them."
"Say! You've got it in for Jim, haven't you, Miss Ann?" Jerry looked at her wonderingly. "What's your against him?"
Ann her lip. "I object to him on principle," she said. "I don't like his type. . . . Well, I'm we've settled this about Ogden, Jerry. I I on you. But I won't let you do it for nothing. Uncle Peter shall give you something for it—enough to start that health-farm you talk about so much. Then you can Maggie and live afterwards."
"Gee! Is the in on this, too?"
"Not yet. I'm going to tell him now. Hush! There's some one coming."
Mr. Pett in. He was still looking troubled.
"Oh, Ann—good morning, Mitchell—your aunt has to go to England. I want you to come, too."
"You want me? To help Jimmy Crocker?"
"No, no. Just to come along and be company on the voyage. You'll be such a help with Ogden, Ann. You can keep him in order. How you do it, I don't know. You to make another boy of him."
Ann a at Jerry, who answered with an grin. Ann was to make her meaning than by the language of the eye.
"Would you mind just away for a moment, Jerry?" she said winningly. "I want to say something to uncle Peter."
"Sure. Sure."
Ann to Mr. Pett as the door closed.
"You'd like somebody to make Ogden a different boy, wouldn't you, uncle Peter?"
"I wish it was possible."
"He's been you a lately, hasn't he?" asked Ann sympathetically.
"Yes," Mr. Pett.
"Then that's all right," said Ann briskly. "I was that you might not approve. But, if you do, I'll go right ahead."
Mr. Pett started violently. There was something in Ann's voice and, as he looked at her, something in her which him the worst. Her were with an light of a nature, and the sun the red to which she her want of to a of flame. There was something in the air. Mr. Pett it with every nerve of his person. He at Ann, and as he did so the years to from him and he was a boy again, about to be to by the will of his boyhood's hero, Hammond Chester. In the of nearly every man there is a single figure, some one Napoleon will was law and at his up and died. In Mr. Pett's life Ann's father had this role. He had Mr. Pett at an age when the mind is most malleable. And now—so true is it that though Time may our memories the of live on in us and an will them to the surface as an up the fish that in the mud—it was as if he were the Hammond Chester again and being to some of which he but which he that he was to undertake. He Ann as a man might watch a bomb, himself for the and that he is helpless. She was Hammond Chester's daughter, and she spoke to him with the voice of Hammond Chester. She was her father's child and she was going to start something.
"I've it all with Jerry," said Ann. "He's going to help me Ogden away to that friend of his I told you about who the dog-hospital: and the friend is going to keep him until he reforms. Isn't it a perfectly idea?"
Mr. Pett blanched. The of had anticipation.
"But, Ann!"
The came from him in a bleat. His whole being was by a horror. This was the limit of his fears. And, to complete the terror of the moment, he knew, while he against the of her scheme, that he was going to agree to it, and—worst of all—that deep, in him there was a toward it which did not to come to the surface but which he to be approval.
"Of Jerry would do it for nothing," said Ann, "but I promised him that you would give him something for his trouble. You can all that yourselves later."
"But, Ann! . . . But, Ann! . . . Suppose your aunt out who did it!"
"Well, there will be a row!" said Ann composedly. "And you will have to yourself. It will be a thing for you. You know you are much too to every one, uncle Peter. I don't think there's any one who would put up with what you do. Father told me in one of his that he used to call you Patient Pete as a boy."
Mr. Pett started. Not for many a day had a which he the most of all possible up from its to him. Patient Pete! He had the title in the same as his youth. Patient Pete! The of the of to in his bosom.
"Patient Pete!"
"Patient Pete!" said Ann inexorably.
"But, Ann,"—there was in Mr. Pett's voice—"I like a peaceful life."
"You'll have one if you don't up for yourself. You know well that father is right. You do let every one on you. Do you think father would let Ogden worry him and have his house with so that he couldn't a room to be alone in?"
"But, Ann, your father is different. He fusses. I've your father a man two hundred out of exuberance. There's a of your father in you, Ann. I've often noticed it."
"There is! That's why I'm going to make you put your sooner or later. You're going to turn all these out of the house. And of all you're going to help us send Ogden away to Mr. Smithers."
There was a long silence.
"It's your red hair!" said Mr. Pett at length, with the air of a man who has been a problem. "It's your red that makes you like this, Ann. Your father has red hair, too."
Ann laughed.
"It's not my fault that I have red hair, uncle Peter. It's my misfortune."
Mr. Pett his head.
"Other people's misfortune, too!" he said.
