“We are going to have some music at the house tonight, and Mr. Lenox has kindly promised to sing for us,” she replied.
“He has, has he?” said David, full of interest. “Wa’al, he’s the feller c’n do it if anybody can. We have singin’ an’ music up t’ the house ev’ry Sunday night—me an’ Polly an’ him—an’ it’s fine. Yes, ma’am, I don’t know much about music myself, but I c’n beat time, an’ he’s got a stack o’ music more’n a mile high, an’ one o’ the songs he sings’ll jest make the windows rattle. That’s my fav’rit,” averred Mr. Harum.
“Do you remember the name of it?” asked Miss Clara.
“No,” he said; “John told me, an’ I guess I’d know it if I heard it; but it’s about a feller sittin’ one day by the org’n an’ not feelin’ exac’ly right—kind o’ tired an’ out o’ sorts an’ not knowin’ jes’ where he was drivin’ at—jes’ joggin’ ’long with a loose rein fer quite a piece, an’ so on; an’ then, by an’ by, strikin’ right into his gait an’ goin’ on stronger ’n stronger, an’ fin’ly finishin’ up with an A—men that carries him quarter way round the track ’fore he c’n pull up. That’s my fav’rit,” Mr. Harum repeated, “ ’cept when him an’ Polly sings together, an’ if that ain’t a show—pertic’lerly Polly—I don’t want a cent. No, ma’am, when him an’ Polly gits good an’ goin’ you can’t see ’em fer dust.”
“I should like to hear them,” said Miss Clara, laughing, “and I should particularly like to hear your favorite, the one which ends with the Amen—the very large A—men.”
“Seventeen hands,” declared Mr. Harum. “Must you be goin’? Wa’al, glad to have seen ye. Polly’s hopin’ you’ll come an’ see her putty soon.”
“I will,” she promised. “Give her my love, and tell her so, please.”
They drove away and David sauntered in, went behind the desks, and perched himself up on a stool near the teller’s counter as he often did when in the office, and John was not particularly engaged.
“Got you roped in, have they?” he said, using his hat as a fan. “Scat my ⸻! but ain’t this a ringtail squealer?”
“It is very hot,” responded John.
“Miss Claricy says you’re goin’ to sing fer ’em up to their house tonight.”
“Yes,” said John, with a slight shrug of the shoulders, as he pinned a paper strap around a pile of bills and began to count out another.
“Don’t feel very fierce for it, I guess, do ye?” said David, looking shrewdly at him.
“Not very,” said John, with a short laugh.
“Feel a little skittish ’bout it, eh?” suggested Mr. Harum. “Don’t see why ye should—anybody that c’n put up a tune the way you kin.”
“It’s rather different,” observed the younger man, “singing for you and Mrs. Bixbee and standing up before a lot of strange people.”
“H-m, h-m,” said David with a nod; “diff’rence ’tween joggin’ along on the road an’ drivin’ a fust heat on the track; in one case the’ ain’t nothin’ up, an’ ye don’t care whether you git there a little more previously or a little less; an’ in the other the’s the crowd, an’ the judges, an’ the stake, an’ your record, an’ mebbe the pool box into the barg’in, that’s all got to be considered. Feller don’t mind it so much after he gits fairly off, but thinkin’ on’t beforehand ’s fidgity bus’nis.”
“You have illustrated it exactly,” said John, laughing, and much amused at David’s very characteristic, as well as accurate, illustration.
“My!” exclaimed Aunt Polly, when John came into the sitting room after dinner dressed to go out. “My, don’t he look nice? I never see you in them clo’es. Come here a minute,” and she picked a thread off his sleeve and took the opportunity to turn him round for the purpose of giving him a thorough inspection.
“That wa’n’t what you said when you see me in my gold-plated harniss,” remarked David, with a grin. “You didn’t say nothin’ putty to me.”
“Humph! I guess the’s some diff’rence,” observed Mrs. Bixbee with scorn, and her brother laughed.
“How was you cal’latin’ to git there?” he asked, looking at our friend’s evening shoes.
“I thought at first I would walk,” was the reply, “but I rather think I will stop at Robinson’s and get him to send me over.”
“I guess you won’t do nothin’ o’ the sort,” declared David. “Tom’s all hitched to take you over, an’ when you’re ready jes’ ring the bell.”
“You’re awfully kind,” said John gratefully, “but I don’t know when I shall be coming home.”
“Come back when you git a good ready,” said Mr. Harum. “If you keep him an’ the hoss waitin’ a spell, I guess they won’t take cold this weather.”
XXXVII
The Verjoos house, of old red brick, stands about a hundred feet back from the north side of the Lake Road, on the south shore of the lake. Since its original construction a porte-cochère has been built upon the front. A very broad hall, from which rises the stairway with a double turn and landing, divides the main body of the house through the middle. On the left, as one enters, is the great drawing room; on the right a parlor opening into a library; and beyond, the dining room, which looks out over the lake. The hall opens in the rear upon a broad, covered veranda, facing the lake, with a flight of steps to a lawn which slopes down to the lake shore, a distance of some hundred and fifty yards.
John had to pass through a little flock of young people who stood near and about the entrance to the drawing room, and having given his package of music to the maid in waiting, with a request that it be put upon the piano, he mounted the stairs to deposit his hat and coat, and then went down.
In the south end of the drawing room were
