We freely own we’d give a leg if we could borrow, steal, or beg the skill old Homer used to show. (He wrote the Iliad, you know.) Old Homer swung a wicked pen, but we are ordinary men, and cannot even start to dream of doing justice to our theme. The subject of that great repast is too magnificent and vast. We can’t describe (or even try) the way those rivals wolfed their pie. Enough to say that, when for hours each had extended all his pow’rs, toward the quiet evenfall O’Dowd succumbed to young McCall.
The champion was a willing lad. He gave the public all he had. His was a genuine fighting soul. He’d lots of speed and much control. No yellow streak did he evince. He tackled apple-pie and mince. This was the motto on his shield–“O’Dowds may burst. They never yield.” His eyes began to start and roll. He eased his belt another hole. Poor fellow! With a single glance one saw that he had not a chance. A python would have had to crawl and own defeat from young McCall.
At last, long last, the finish came. His features overcast with shame, O’Dowd, who’d faltered once or twice, declined to eat another slice. He tottered off, and kindly men rallied around with oxygen. But Washy, Cora Bates’s son, seemed disappointed it was done. He somehow made those present feel he’d barely started on his meal. We ask him, “Aren’t you feeling bad?” “Me!” said the lion-hearted lad. “Lead me”–he started for the street–“where I can get a bite to eat!” Oh, what a lesson does it teach to all of us, that splendid speech! How better can the curtain fall on Master Washington McCall!
Mr. McCall read this epic through, then he looked at his son. He first looked at him over his glasses, then through his glasses, then over his glasses again, then through his glasses once more. A curious expression was in his eyes. If such a thing had not been so impossible, one would have said that his gaze had in it something of respect, of admiration, even of reverence.
“But how did they find out your name?” he asked, at length.
Mrs. McCall exclaimed impatiently.
“Is THAT all you have to say?”
“No, no, my dear, of course not, quite so. But the point struck me as curious.”
“Wretched boy,” cried Mrs. McCall, “were you insane enough to reveal your name?”
Washington wriggled uneasily. Unable to endure the piercing stare of his mother, he had withdrawn to the window, and was looking out with his back turned. But even there he could feel her eyes on the back of his neck.
“I didn’t think it ‘ud matter,” he mumbled. “A fellow with tortoiseshell-rimmed specs asked me, so I told him. How was I to know–”
His stumbling defence was cut short by the opening of the door.
“Hallo-allo-allo! What ho! What ho!”
Archie was standing in the doorway, beaming ingratiatingly on the family.
The apparition of an entire stranger served to divert the lightning of Mrs. McCall’s gaze from the unfortunate Washy. Archie, catching it between the eyes, blinked and held on to the wall. He had begun to regret that he had yielded so weakly to Lucille’s entreaty that he should look in on the McCalls and use the magnetism of his personality upon them in the hope of inducing them to settle the lawsuit. He wished, too, if the visit had to be paid that he had postponed it till after lunch, for he was never at his strongest in the morning. But Lucille had urged him to go now and get it over, and here he was.
“I think,” said Mrs. McCall, icily, “that you must have mistaken your room.”
Archie rallied his shaken forces.
“Oh, no. Rather not. Better introduce myself, what? My name’s Moffam, you know. I’m old Brewster’s son-in-law, and all that sort of rot, if you know what I mean.” He gulped and continued. “I’ve come about this jolly old lawsuit, don’t you know.”
Mr. McCall seemed about to speak, but his wife anticipated him.
“Mr. Brewster’s attorneys are in communication with ours. We do not wish to discuss the matter.”