All at once his mischievous eye perceived two girls of a rather noticeable type. Instantly he was on his feet, with an exaggerated sweep of his hat, exclaiming:
“Ladies, accept my carriage, my prancing horses, my groom and my footman.”
The girls, bursting into laughter, waved to him.
“Yes, it’s a lovely day,” continued Schley, in imitation of McNab. “Mother’s gone to the country, aunty’s visiting us now, Uncle John’s coming tomorrow—he’ll be sober then. Too bad, girls, you’re going the other way, and such lovely weather. Won’t you take a ride? What? Oh, do now. Here, I say, Dink—whoa there! They’re coming.”
“Rats,” said Troutman, glancing uneasily up the street.
“Sure they are. Whoa! Hold up. We’ll give ’em a little ride, just for a lark. What’s the diff?”
He was down, hat off, with exaggerated Chesterfield politeness, going to their coming.
“Do you mind?” said Troutman to Stover. “Schley’s a crazy ass to do this just now.”
“I wouldn’t take them far,” said Stover, who did not particularly care. He had no facility for bantering of this sort, but it rather amused him to listen to Schley. He saw that while they were of an obvious type one was insipid, and the other rather pretty, dark with Irish black eyes.
“Ladies, I wish to make you acquainted with my friends,” said Schley, as he might speak to a duchess. “The ill-favored gent with the vermilion hair is the Reverend Doctor Balmfinder; the one with the padded shoulders is Binks, my trainer. Now what is this little girl’s name?”
“Muriel,” said the blonde, “Muriel Stacey.”
“Of course, I might have known it. And yours of course is Maude, isn’t it?”
“My name is Fanny Le Roy,” said the brunette with a little pride.
“Dear me, what a beautiful name,” said Schley. “Now girls, we’ll take you for a little ride, but we can’t take you very far for our mammas don’t know we’re out, and you must promise to be very good and get out when we tell you, and not ask for candy! Do we promise?”
Schley sat on the rear seat, chatting along, a girl on either side of him, while Troutman, facing about, added his badinage. It was not excruciatingly witty, and yet at times Stover, occupied with the driving, could not help bursting into a laugh at the sheer nonsense. It interested him as a spectator; it was a side of life he knew little of, for, his nature being sentimental, he was a little afraid of such women.
“What’s our real names?” said Troutman in reply to a demand. “Do you really want to know? We’ll send them to you. Of course we’ve met before. In New York, wasn’t it, at the junior cotillion?”
“Sure I saw this fellow at the Hari-gori’s ball,” said Fanny, appealing to her companion.
“Sure you did.”
“If you say so, all right,” said Troutman, winking at Schley. “Fanny, you have beautiful eyes. Course you don’t know it.”
“You two are great jolliers, aren’t you?” said Fanny, receiving the slapstick compliment with pleasure.
“They think we’re easy,” said Muriel, with a look at Schley.
“I think the fellow that’s driving is the best of the lot,” said Fanny, with the usual method of attack.
“Wow,” said Troutman.
“Come on back,” said Schley, “we don’t count.”
Stover laughed and drove on. The party had now passed the point of interest. He had no desire for a chance meeting that would require explanations, but he volunteered no advice, not caring to appear prudish in the company of such men of the world.
They were in the open country, the outskirts of New Haven just left behind. For some time Fanny Le Roy had been silent, pressing her hand against her side, frowning. All at once a cry was wrung from her. The carriage stopped. All turned in alarm to where the girl, her teeth compressed, clutching at her side, was lying back against the seat, writhing in agony.
Troutman swore under his breath.
“A devil of a mess!”
They descended hurriedly and laid the girl on the grass, where her agony continued increasingly. Schley and Troutman were whispering apart. The other girl, hysterically bending over her companion, mopped her face with a useless handkerchief, crying:
“She’s got a fit; she’s got a fit!”
“I say it’s appendicitis or gripes,” said Troutman, coming over to Stover. His face was colorless, and he spoke the words nervously. “The deuce of a fix Chris has got us into!”
“Come, we’ve got to get her back,” said Stover, realizing the gravity of the situation. He went abruptly to the girl and spoke with quick authority. “Now stop crying; I want you to get hold of yourself. Here Schley, lend a hand; you and Troutman get her back into the carriage. Do it quickly.”
“What are you going to do?” said Troutman, under his breath.
“Drive her to a doctor, of course.”
“Couldn’t we go and fetch a doctor here?”
“No, we couldn’t!”
With some difficulty they got the suffering girl into the carriage and started back. No one spoke; the banter had given place to a few muttered words that broke the moaning, delirious tones of the stricken girl.
“Going to drive into New Haven this way?” said Troutman, for the second time under his breath.
“Sure.”
“Hell!”
They came to the city streets, and Stover drove on hastily, seeking from right to left for a doctor. All at once he drew up at the curb, flung the reins to Troutman, and rushed into a house where he had seen a sign displayed—“Dr. Burke.” He was back almost immediately with the doctor at his heels.
“I say, Dink, look here,” said Schley, plucking him aside, as the doctor hurriedly examined the girl. “This is a deuce of a mess.”
“You bet it is,” said Stover, thinking of the sufferer.
“I say, if this gets out it’ll be a nasty business.”
“What do you mean?”
“If we’re seen driving back with—well, with this bunch!”
“What do you propose?” said Stover sharply.
Troutman joined them.
“See here, leave her with the doctor, I’ll put up all the money that’s necessary, the
