world’s society to which he had been born. Why not? even the rabid
republican chair-maker would do that. Yes, his conscience was
comfortable once more.
He woke refreshed, happy, and eager for his cablegram. He had been born
an aristocrat, he had been a democrat for a time, he was now an
aristocrat again. He marveled to find that this final change was not
merely intellectual, it had invaded his feeling; and he also marveled to
note that this feeling seemed a good deal less artificial than any he had
entertained in his system for a long time. He could also have noted,
if he had thought of it, that his bearing had stiffened, over night,
and that his chin had lifted itself a shade. Arrived in the basement,
he was about to enter the breakfast room when he saw old Marsh in the dim
light of a corner of the hall, beckoning him with his finger to approach.
The blood welled slowly up in Tracy’s cheek, and he said with a grade of
injured dignity almost ducal:
“Is that for me?”
“Yes.”
“What is the purpose of it?”
“I want to speak to you-in private.”
“This spot is private enough for me.”
Marsh was surprised; and not particularly pleased. He approached and
said:
“Oh, in public, then, if you prefer. Though it hasn’t been my way.”
The boarders gathered to the spot, interested.
“Speak out,” said Tracy. “What is it you want?”
“Well, haven’t you–er–forgot something?”
“I? I’m not aware of it.”
“Oh, you’re not? Now you stop and think, a minute.”
“I refuse to stop and think. It doesn’t interest me. If it interests
you, speak out.”
“Well, then,” said Marsh, raising his voice to a slightly angry pitch,”
You forgot to pay your board yesterday–if you’re bound to have it
public.”
Oh, yes, this heir to an annual million or so had been dreaming and
soaring, and had forgotten that pitiful three or four dollars. For
penalty he must have it coarsely flung in his face in the presence of
these people–people in whose countenances was already beginning to dawn
an uncharitable enjoyment of the situation.
“Is that all! Take your money and give your terrors a rest.”
Tracy’s hand went down into his pocket with angry decision. But-it
didn’t come out. The color began to ebb out of his face. The
countenances about him showed a growing interest; and some of them a
heightened satisfaction. There was an uncomfortable pause–then he
forced out, with difficulty, the words:
“I’ve–been robbed!”
Old Marsh’s eyes flamed up with Spanish fire, and he exclaimed:
“Robbed, is it? That’s your tune? It’s too old–been played in this
house too often; everybody plays it that can’t get work when he wants it,
and won’t work when he can get it. Trot out Mr. Allen, somebody, and let
him take a toot at it. It’s his turn next, he forgot, too, last night.
I’m laying for him.”
One of the negro women came scrambling down stairs as pale as a sorrel
horse with consternation and excitement:
“Misto Marsh, Misto Allen’s skipped out!”
“What!”
“Yes-sah, and cleaned out his room clean; tuck bofe towels en de soap!”
“You lie, you hussy!”
“It’s jes’ so, jes’ as I tells you–en Misto Summer’s socks is gone, en
Misto Naylor’s yuther shirt.”
Mr. Marsh was at boiling point by this time. He turned upon Tracy:
“Answer up now-when are you going to settle?”
“To-day-since you seem to be in a hurry.”
“To-day is it? Sunday–and you out of work? I like that. Come–where
are you going to get the money?”
Tracy’s spirit was rising again. He proposed to impress these people:
“I am expecting a cablegram from home.”
Old Marsh was caught out, with the surprise of it. The idea was so
immense, so extravagant, that he couldn’t get his breath at first. When
he did get it, it came rancid with sarcasm.
“A cablegram–think of it, ladies and gents, he’s expecting a cablegram!
He’s expecting a cablegram–this duffer, this scrub, this bilk! From his
father–eh? Yes–without a doubt. A dollar or two a word–oh, that’s
nothing–they don’t mind a little thing like that–this kind’s fathers
don’t. Now his father is–er–well, I reckon his father–“