“And I’ve either got to sell them or kill them,” he groaned. Later on he instructed Bragdon to sell the pups for $25 apiece, and went away, ashamed to look their proud mother in the face.
Fortune smiled on him before the day was over, however. He took “Subway” Smith for a ride in the “Green Juggernaut,” bad weather and bad roads notwithstanding. Monty lost control of the machine and headed for a subway excavation. He and Smith saved themselves by leaping to the pavement, sustaining slight bruises, but the great machine crashed through the barricade and dropped to the bottom of the trench far below. To Smith’s grief and Brewster’s delight the automobile was hopelessly ruined, a clear loss of many thousands. Monty’s joy was short-lived, for it was soon learned that three luckless workmen down in the depths had been badly injured by the green meteor from above. The mere fact that Brewster could and did pay liberally for the relief of the poor fellows afforded him little consolation. His carelessness, and possibly his indifference, had brought suffering to these men and their families which was not pleasant to look back upon. Lawsuits were avoided by compromises. Each of the injured men received $4,000.
At this time everyone was interested in the charity bazaar at the Astoria. Society was on exhibition, and the public paid for the privilege of gazing at the men and women whose names filled the society columns. Brewster frequented the booth presided over by Miss Drew, and there seemed to be no end to his philanthropy. The bazaar lasted two days and nights, and after that period his account-book showed an even “profit” of nearly $3,000. Monty’s serenity, however, was considerably ruffled by the appearance of a new and aggressive claimant for the smiles of the fair Barbara. He was a Californian of immense wealth and unbounded confidence in himself, and letters to people in New York had given him a certain entrée. The triumphs in love and finance that had come with his two score years and ten had demolished every vestige of timidity that may have been born with him. He was successful enough in the world of finance to have become four or five times a millionaire, and he had fared so well in love that twice he had been a widower. Rodney Grimes was starting out to win Barbara with the same dash and impulsiveness that overcame Mary Farrell, the cook in the mining-camp, and Jane Boothroyd, the schoolteacher, who came to California ready to marry the first man who asked her. He was a penniless prospector when he married Mary, and when he led Jane to the altar she rejoiced in having captured a husband worth at least $50,000.
He vied with Brewster in patronizing Barbara’s booth, and he rushed into the conflict with an impetuosity that seemed destined to carry everything before it. Monty was brushed aside, Barbara was preempted as if she were a mining claim and ten days after his arrival in New York, Grimes was the most talked-of man in town. Brewster was not the sort to be dispatched without a struggle, however. Recognizing Grimes as an obstacle, but not as a rival, he once more donned his armor and beset Barbara with all the zest of a champion who seeks to protect and not to conquer. He regarded the Californian as an impostor and summary action was necessary. “I know all about him, Babs,” he said one day after he felt sure of his position. “Why, his father was honored by the V.C., on the coast in ’49.”
“The Victoria Cross?” asked Barbara, innocently.
“No, the vigilance committee.”
In this way Monty routed the enemy and cleared the field before the end of another week. Grimes transferred his objectionable affection and Barbara was not even asked to be wife number three. Brewster’s campaign was so ardent that he neglected other duties deplorably, falling far behind his improvident average. With Grimes disposed of, he once more forsook the battlefield of love and gave his harassed and undivided attention to his own peculiar business.
The fast-and-loose game displeased Miss Barbara greatly. She was at first surprised, then piqued, then resentful. Monty gradually awoke to the distressing fact that she was going to be intractable, as he put it, and forthwith undertook to smooth the troubled sea. To his amazement and concern she was not to be appeased.
“Does it occur to you, Monty,” she said, with a gentle coldness that was infinitely worse than heat, “that you have been carrying things with a pretty high hand? Where did you acquire the right to interfere with my privileges? You seem to think that I am not to speak to any man but you.”
“O, come now, Babs,” retorted Monty, “I’ve not been quite as unreasonable as that. And you know yourself that Grimes is the worst kind of a bounder.”
“I know nothing of the sort,” replied the lady, with growing irritation. “You say that about every man who gives me a smile or a flower. Does it indicate such atrocious taste?”
“Don’t be silly, Barbara. You know perfectly well that you have talked to Gardner and that idiot Valentine by the hour, and I’ve not said a word. But there are some things I can’t stand, and the impertinence of Grimes is one of them. Jove! he looked at you, out of those fishy eyes, sometimes as though he owned you. If you knew how many times I’ve fairly ached to knock him down!”
Inwardly Barbara was weakening a little before his masterfulness. But she gave no sign.
“And it never occurred to you,” she said, with that exasperating coldness of the voice, “that I was equal to the situation. I suppose you thought Mr. Grimes had only to beckon and I would joyfully answer. I’ll have you know, Monty Brewster, right now, that I am quite able to choose my friends, and to handle them. Mr. Grimes
