“Humph! She must have been pickled! I thought she was getting on, all right, at a girls’ school in Washington … Didn’t know she was home.”
Jennings warmed his engine noisily, and threw in the clutch.
“Maybe she was sacked.”
Pyle made some hopeless noises deep in his throat.
“Too bad about old Merrick … Salt of the earth; finest of the fine. He’s had more than his share of trouble. Did you ever know Clif?”
“No. He was dead. But I’ve heard of him. A bum, wasn’t he?”
“That describes him; and this orphan of his seems to be headed in the same direction.”
“Orphan? I thought this boy’s mother was living—Paris or somewhere.”
“Oh yes, she’s living; but the boy’s an orphan, for all that. Born an orphan!” Pyle briefly reviewed the Merrick saga.
“Perhaps,” suggested Jennings, as they rolled into the club garage, “you might have a chat with old Merrick, if he’s such a good sort, and tell him his whelp is a contaminating influence to our girl.”
“Pfff!” Pyle led the way to the elevator.
“Well, if that proposal’s no good, why don’t you go manfully to the young lady herself and inform her that she’s driving her eminent parent crazy? Put it up to her as a matter of good sportsmanship.”
“No,” objected Pyle, hooking his glasses athwart his nose to inspect the menu, “she would only air her indignation to her father. And he likes people to mind their own business—as you’ve discovered on two or three occasions. He keeps his own counsel like a clam, and doesn’t thank anybody for crashing into his affairs, no matter how benevolent may be the motive … It would be quite useless, anyway. Joyce can’t help the way she’s made. She is a biological throwback to her maternal grandfather. You never knew him. He was just putting the finishing touches to his career as a periodical sot when I arrived in this town, fresh from school. Cummings was the best all ’round surgeon and the hardest all ’round drinker in the state of Michigan for twenty years; one of these three-days-soused and three-weeks-sober drunkards. This girl evidently carries an overplus of the old chap’s chromosomes.”
“You mean she is a dipsomaniac?”
“Well—that’s a nasty word. Let’s just say she’s erratic. Ever since she was a little tot, she has been a storm centre. Sweetest thing in the world when she wants to be. And then all hell breaks loose and Hudson has to plead with the teachers to take her back. Oh, she’s given him an exciting life; no doubt of that! And lately it’s booze!”
“Hudson knows about that part of it, of course!”
“I presume so. How could he help it? She makes no secret of it. At all events, she’s no hypocrite.”
Jennings sighed.
“Rather unfortunate she has this one embarrassing virtue; isn’t it? But, that being the case, I dare say she’ll have to go to the devil at her own speed. We must persuade Hudson, however, to clear out and take a long leave of absence. He can take her along. Lay it on with a heavy hand, Pyle. Be utterly ruthless! Tell him it affects us all. That ought to fetch him. I never knew anybody quite so sensitive to the welfare of other people. Save that card for the last trick: tell him if he doesn’t clear out, for a while, he will do up the rest of us!”
For the first half hour of their conference, which was held in the chief’s office the following Tuesday, Pyle stubbornly held out for a trip around the world, Joyce to accompany her father. Indeed, the idea had seemed so good that he had armed himself with a portfolio of attractive cruise literature. He had even made out an intriguing itinerary—Hawaii, Tahiti, ukeleles—Pyle was a confirmed landlubber with a dangerously suppressed desire to lie on his back, pleasantly jingled, under a trans-equatorial palm, listening to the soft vowels of grown-up children unspoiled by civilization—the Mediterranean countries, six months of hobnobbing with brain specialists in Germany. The latter item had been included as a particularly tempting bait. Hudson had often declared he meant to do that some day.
The chief listened preoccupiedly; tried to seem grateful; tried to seem interested; but as Pyle rumbled on with his sales-talk the big man grew restless, refilled his fountain-pen, rearranged his papers in neater piles, had much difficulty hunting a matchbox. Then he shook his head, smiling.
No, much as he appreciated Pyle’s friendly concern, he wasn’t going around the world; not just now. Of course he had been sticking at it too steadily. Lately he had had it on his mind to build a little shack in some out of the way place, not too far off, and put in there from Friday afternoon to Tuesday morning, at least in decent weather, tramp, fish, botanize, read light novels, sleep, live the simple life. He would begin plans on such a place at once. Spring would be along soon.
“And—meantime?” persisted Pyle, gnawing at the tip of his uptilted little goatee.
Hudson rose, slammed a drawer shut with a bang, swung a leg over the corner of his desk, folded his arms tightly, and faced his counsellor with a mysterious grin.
“Meantime? … Pyle, I hope this won’t knock you cold. I’m going down to Philadelphia, week after next, to marry my daughter’s school friend, Miss Helen Brent.”
Pyle’s eyes and mouth comically registered such stunned amazement that the Hudson grin widened.
“And then the three of us will be spending a couple of months in Europe. I’ve arranged with Leighton to come over from the university and take care of such head cases as Watson can’t handle. Watson’s a good man; bright future. Oddly enough, I was on the point of asking you in to talk this over when you said you wished to see me.”
Pyle bit off the end of a fresh cigar and mumbled felicitations, not yet sufficiently recovered to pretend enthusiasm.
“Doubtless you think me a fool, Pyle.”
Hudson took a turn up and down the room, giving his colleague an opportunity to
