Blind Mice

Blind Mice

By C. Kay Scott.

Table of Contents

1. Titlepage
2. Imprint
3. Dedication
4. Blind Mice
   1. I
   2. II
   3. III
   4. IV
   5. V
   6. VI
   7. VII
   8. VIII
   9. IX
   10. X
   11. XI
   12. XII
   13. XIII
   14. XIV
   15. XV
   16. XVI
   17. XVII
   18. XVIII
   19. XIX
   20. XX
   21. XXI
   22. XXII
   23. XXIII
   24. XXIV
   25. XXV
   26. XXVI
   27. XXVII
   28. XXVIII
   29. XXIX
   30. XXX
   31. XXXI
   32. XXXII
   33. XXXIII
   34. XXXIV
   35. XXXV
   36. XXXVI
5. Colophon
6. Uncopyright

Imprint

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To
Otto Frederic Theis
friend of this book
and of its author

Blind Mice

I

The suburban train was crowded and the stops were frequent.

Two young men, who had secured seats near the end of their car, were occupied, one in reading an evening paper and the other in making some calculations in a note book. The one reading stopped often to quote a news item to his companion, or to make some remark. This was John Winter. He was rather short and well nourished, one of the men who indicate that in later years they will grow stout. He had very blue eyes and fair hair and his clear skin was smoothly shaven. His cheeks were pink and white, his lips very red. His clothing, which was of the latest cut, was dark blue. He wore, as was his invariable custom, a necktie the exact color of his eyes, which was for him a most becoming combination. With this exception, however, his dress showed a noticeable lack of care. He had a somewhat boisterous and affectionate manner, and a rather loud voice. When excited or interested he had a boyish way of removing his hat and running his fingers through his hair.

His friend, James Sprague, did not seem to mind John’s interruptions and replied good naturedly. Both appeared in the best of spirits and the good understanding between them was evident.

Sprague was tall and slender, with large hands and feet. An even color glowed through his darkly tinted skin. He had deep set brown eyes. The other features were large; the mouth straight. A brown moustache, closely cut as was his dark hair, shaded his heavy upper lip. He wore fastidiously selected clothing that displayed an exaggeratedly quiet taste; the cravat chosen in stripes too minute for good general effect, and the cuffs, shoes, and other details of attire immaculate and suggestive of extreme thought for appearance. Sprague’s voice was low pitched and subdued. He spoke slowly and smiled occasionally in an extraordinarily attractive manner.

It was raining. At one of the stations a pretty girl entered the car, her mackintosh and umbrella dripping. John Winter, although farthest from the aisle, jumped quickly to his feet to offer her his place. Sprague moved next to the window, to allow her to sit down without passing him, and at once resumed his figuring. Winter hung to a strap and continued the reading of his paper and his frequent remarks to his friend, glancing now and then at the girl’s profile which was particularly pleasing. She looked demurely at her gloves, smiling slightly at some of John’s conspicuously uttered sallies to Jim. After three stations were passed she arose, and, with a hasty glance at the pleasant boyish face of the young man standing, left the car. Winter’s gaze followed her to the door.

“Why don’t you sit down, John?” asked Sprague without lifting his eyes from his work. Winter sat down rather suddenly. “We ought to put cement into that cellar wall of Howland’s house,” Sprague continued. “I told him so today and it was included in the estimates.”

“I didn’t know he came to the office,” returned Winter. “When was he there?”

“Just before you got back from lunch,” answered his companion.

“I was looking at some designs for art tiles,” explained John, “and so I was late. I wanted to see Howland badly. Did he say anything about my decoration scheme for the interior?”

“I showed it to him,” responded Sprague, “but he said he couldn’t afford it.”

“I’m sorry we ever touched his rotten house!” exclaimed Winter. “He has no more taste than a billy goat.”

“He’s coming in again tomorrow.” Sprague smiled a little. “So you can talk with him yourself.” Then, after a pause, “Lucy is expecting her mother, you said. When does she get here?”

“Tomorrow,” replied John with a grimace, taking up his paper again.

Jim resumed his figuring.

“Here, wake up,” he said a few minutes later, glancing out of the window as the train slowed down at a small station. “This is Rosedene. Suppose we get off here.” And the two alighted from the car.

When they turned into the street where John lived