Delphi Complete Works of Thorne Smith (Illustrated), page 16
“Well, so am I. It’s been a full day, but we’ve succeeded in remaining rather empty. When and where do we eat?”
“Do you see that lake down there?” she asked, pointing to the valley.
“I do now,” he replied, “but I hadn’t noticed it before. It looks so lost among the trees.”
“That’s just what it is,” she answered. “Years ago that little lake strayed away from its mother, and ever since then these hills have been nursing it here in secret. And every year the mother lake sends the streams and rivers in search of her lost lakelet, but these hills, which are inclined to be barren, consider the foundling as theirs and jealously keep it locked away in the valley.”
“Well,” remarked Mr. Topper, after a short pause, “now that you’ve about rung the change on that theme, let’s go down and take a look at this lost lake of yours. Perhaps there’s some food to be found.”
“No doubt there is, you prosaic beast,” the girl replied as she started the machine. “There used to be a store at one end.”
As the car descended the winding way the road grew deeper in shadows, and when they reached the border of the lake a dim film of daylight still lingered over its still surface as if reluctant to leave this quiet spot.
To Mr. Topper the lake seemed truly lost. And everything about the place partook of the same atmosphere. On its shores he could distinguish only a few cottages and even these had an abandoned look about them. He felt that they must have crept away from some populous summer colony and hidden themselves among the trees to rest. About halfway up the opposite hill a large stone house cut a breach in the trees. A few lights twinkled in the upper windows, these golden specks of life serving only to intensify the solitude of the scene. For the first time in his life Mr. Topper felt really secure from the world and all its works. In such a place as this Marion Kerby could do her worst without disturbing his peace of mind. It occurred to Mr. Topper that it would be a delightful sensation to strip himself naked and go running through the trees, to feel the night on his body and to meet the earth like a free, unabashed creature of the earth. This was a radical thought for Mr. Topper, and happily, some may feel, a passing one. It left him slightly sobered.
“Have you ever been here before?” he asked, sensing the precarious condition of his mind.
“Didn’t I just tell you?” she answered. “I’ve been here lots of times. I used to come here to hide from George when he got on my nerves.”
“God grant that we may be as successful this time,” Mr. Topper breathed with unfeigned sincerity.
“Don’t worry your head about him,” she replied carelessly. “He’s probably sound asleep in some low café at this very minute. We’ll drive down to the other end in search of food and shelter.”
“Is there some sort of an inn about?”
“No, but the cottages look deserted.”
Mr. Topper did not entertain with enthusiasm the prospect of breaking into a deserted cottage, but as the only other alternative lay in sleeping in the automobile he held his peace.
At the end of the lake they found a small store from which they purchased provisions of a compressed nature. By the time they had completed their transactions under the suspicious eye of the storekeeper daylight had faded from the face of the lake. A world of stars looked down on them and showered the dark water with a spray of golden coins, which danced and sparkled whenever a breeze moved from the shore.
“We’ll have to park the car on this side,” Marion Kerby said in a low voice. “The road ends here. We can walk round to the cottages by the path.”
They arranged the automobile for the night and Mr. Topper, taking a suit-case in either hand, followed his guide along a root-filled path. From time to time he tripped and cursed bitterly, but Marion Kerby urged him on to greater efforts with derisive words of encouragement. After passing two cottages steeped in shadows, she selected the third and more imposing one. Leaving Topper perspiring on the veranda with his luggage, she disappeared in the darkness. After what seemed to him an eternity of time he was startled to hear the door opening stealthily behind him.
“It’s all jake,” Marion whispered. “I found a reasonable window. Bring in the bags. This is a plush abode.”
“It may be plush to you,” he grumbled, stumbling in with the bags, “but to me it’s far from homelike. We don’t even know the owners.”
“Would you like to meet them?” she asked from the darkness.
“Not at this minute,” he admitted, dropping the bags to the floor. “Light up and let’s see where we are.”
With the lighting of a candle the house sprang into terrifying reality to Mr. Topper. Every corner contained a shadow and every shadow contained a possible danger. But Marion Kerby was delighted. The house, after a swift investigation, proved to be in a fair state of order. There were beds and they were ready to receive occupants. Other equipment was present. Most gratifying of all there was an oil stove all ready to fulfill its destiny. These discoveries which, to Marion Kerby, were occasions for congratulation were, to Mr. Topper, sources of dismay. As Marion flitted cheerfully round the place he edged towards the door.
“Stop chirping like that!” he exclaimed at last. “It’s all clear to me. The owners have just gone out. They’ll be back at any moment. Let’s go.”
“You’d make a dangerous detective,” she answered. “Doesn’t your nose tell you that this place hasn’t been open since last summer? Look at this glass. It’s dusty. And the table. I could write your name on it.”
“Don’t,” said Mr. Topper. “Write yours. I require no publicity.”
“Come back here then and sit down,” she replied. “I’m going to air out the beds in our room.”
Mr. Topper looked at her in blank astonishment.
“Do you mean to tell me,” he finally managed to get out, “that in spite of all the beds in this house you’re so depraved as to insist on sleeping with me?”
“I just thought it would be more fun.”
“Fun,” he repeated. “What has that to do with it? It might be fun to live in a harem, but right-thinking men don’t do it. Fun fills the divorce courts and digs untimely graves. Anyway, under the circumstances, I don’t feel funny.”
“Why don’t you get up on the table and preach down at me?” she jeered. “Bring me back to the fold. Point the way to salvation.”
“You should know more about the hereafter than I do,” he remarked moodily.
She came over to him and placed her hands on his shoulders. He stepped back and tried to avoid her eyes.
“Now don’t begin to coax me,” he said. “I won’t hear a word of it. It was bad enough before you materialized, but now it is utterly out of the question. Absolutely.”
“Aw, give us a kiss,” was all she said, and she took it.
Topper, though remarkably pleased, remained adamant, and after a certain amount of haggling they arrived at a compromise. They would occupy connecting rooms. Topper thought that that was compromising enough.
“You know,” she explained to him, “it’s better that I should sleep close by so that I can protect you in case somebody comes.”
This last argument struck Mr. Topper with so much force that he was tempted to ask her to disregard his previous objections. His conventional training, however, overcame his natural timidity.
While Marion Kerby was preparing a supper of soup, beans and coffee he watched her with a mixture of admiration and dread. And when at last she placed the provender before him, dread faded away and only admiration remained. Truly she was a remarkable woman for one so loose. He thought of his wife and sighed. Then his thoughts reverted to Scollops. He wondered how life was treating his cat, and whether or not she still slept in his chair. While wondering he ate diligently with the appetite of a famished man. Food had never meant so much to Mr. Topper. Presently he halted and looked up from his plate.
“Do you like cats?” he asked.
Before his companion had time to answer Mr. Topper’s jaw dropped, his face changed color, and with dilated eyes he gazed over her shoulder. For a moment she was too startled to complete her chewing. Then she rose from her chair and hurried to him.
“Are you choking?” she asked. “Can’t you swallow?”
And with this she began to pound him on the back. Mr. Topper almost fell from his chair.
“I’m not choking,” he gasped, “but I can’t swallow. Oh, look!”
Marion was too alarmed to heed his words. She stopped thumping and began to tear at his shirt.
“I’ll open your collar,” she said, “and then you’ll feel better.”
At this Mr. Topper returned to speech.
“Hell, no!” he shouted. “Don’t open my collar. Open a window instead. He’s standing in the doorway right behind you.”
In an instant the situation was clear to Marion Kerby. Slowly and with great dignity she turned and beheld a rough-looking individual standing exactly where Mr. Topper had said, in the doorway. In one hand he held a lantern, in the other an ugly-looking stick.
“Will you be good enough to tell me just what you are doing here?” she asked in a calm voice.
The man hesitated and looked at her with a surprised expression.
“Protecting the master’s property,” he replied. “He don’t allow squatters here.”
“Squatters,” she replied in a puzzled voice. “Squatters? Now what exactly are squatters? Sounds like some sort of a pigeon, or perhaps a fish. Are squatters fish?”
“If yer don’t understand what squatters is,” said the man, “I’ll change it to house breakers, trespassers, undesirable people, thieves, loafers — —”
“It’s quite clear,” interrupted the girl. “Don’t go on. Now tell me who is the master you referred to?”
“He’s Mr. Wilbur,” the man replied.
“And where is he now?”
“He’s in Europe, that’s where he is.”
“How odd,” she mused. “So is my husband.”
“I’m her brother,” put in Mr. Topper in consternation. “Her eldest brother. We’re nice people and . . .”
The man glared at Mr. Topper and raised his stick threateningly. Mr. Topper sank back in his chair.
“Leave this to me,” Marion whispered quickly, then advanced on the unwelcome visitor.
“For some unfortunate reason,” she said, “I haven’t taken a fancy to you. It might not be your fault. I hope it isn’t, but the fact remains that now you must go. Take your little lantern and swagger stick and hop off. If not, God protect you.”
“Quit yer bluffing,” replied the man, “or I’ll use this club on the both of yer.”
Then a strange and terrible thing took place. The woman, facing the intruder, crumpled to the floor. Nothing remained of her save an inert bundle of clothing. Even Mr. Topper, as accustomed as he was to unexpected occurrences, sat horrified in his chair. The man looked down at the clothing and strove to collect his wits.
“She’s fainted,” he suggested, looking hopefully at Topper.
Mr. Topper began to laugh hysterically.
“What’s that?” asked the man suddenly as his hat snapped down over his eyes. He raised his hands to his hat, then quickly transferred them to his stomach. As the stick fell to the floor it was seized by an invisible hand and brandished in the air. With great force and accuracy it descended on the now prominent region of his reverse exposure, causing him to snap erect. His face was a study in terror as he fell on his hands and knees and began to crawl to the door.
“Here’s your lantern!” a voice cried. “Clear out quick!”
The voice was too much for the man. He staggered to his feet and without waiting for the lantern fled from the cottage; the lantern, following in close pursuit, danced crazily in the darkness. Mr. Topper could trace the retreat of the man by the crashing of the bushes and the cries that disturbed the night. Gradually these sounds subsided and silence settled down. Some minutes later the bundle of clothing began to stir. Mr. Topper saw a confused mass of feminine apparel arrange itself in the air and assume the outlines of a woman. He closed his eyes to blot out the sight and when he opened them again Marion Kerby was standing before him.
“What were you saying about cats?” she asked, seating herself on the table.
“I don’t know,” said Mr. Topper. “Was I saying anything about cats?”
“It doesn’t matter,” she replied. “That bird won’t be back to-night. I couldn’t get him to take his lantern so I was forced to throw it at him.”
She slid over to the dejected Topper and, curving an arm round his shoulder, sat heavily on his lap. Too weak to protest, he allowed her to sip his coffee.
“I doubt if he ever comes back,” she added reflectively.
“What do you mean?” asked Mr. Topper uneasily. “I hope you didn’t kill him or maim him for life. Did you?”
“Not quite,” she replied. “Almost though. He called us squatters. I don’t mind about myself, but I can’t bear to think of you as a squatter.”
“I don’t mind being called a squatter,” said Mr. Topper thoughtfully, “but I couldn’t stand that club of his. Every time I looked at the thing it gave me the shivers. There were knobs on it.”
Marion Kerby jumped from his knees and squeezed his hand.
“Don’t think of him any more,” she said. “Let’s go outside and contemplate the stars.”
“I hope that’s all we’ll contemplate,” replied Mr. Topper.
They sat on the steps of the veranda and Marion rested her head on Mr. Topper’s knee. Once more he thought of Scollops. Then he looked down into the girl’s eyes and saw that in them, too, there was an expression he could not fathom, but on this occasion he was thrilled instead of being troubled.
“You know,” she remarked, smiling up at him, “you’re not my eldest brother. You’re my first and only child.”
“Well, from the way you’re bringing me up,” he replied, “you must be one of those Spartan mothers I read about in school.”
“Sure I am,” she answered. “I’ll make a man of you yet.”
“Then keep the door open between us,” said Mr. Topper. “I’m feeling far from well. If I dream about clubs to-night I’m likely to die in my sleep.”
He lit a cigar and looked down on the lake.
“Nice night,” he suggested.
“Swell,” she replied, snuggling closer to him. “I’ll try a cigar, too.”
CHAPTER XVI
ENTER THE COLONEL AND MRS. HART
A SHAFT OF hazy sunlight sifting through moist green leaves found its way into Mr. Topper’s room. After fingering the bedspread delicately it finally crept up to his strangely innocent-looking face, now lying unprotected beneath a nocturnal gathering of whiskers. Topper stirred fretfully and rolled over on his side. In his heart there was a fierce desire to remain oblivious of life, but somewhere within his subconscious lurked a painful suspicion that all was not well with the world, or at least, that part of the world which he, Topper, personally occupied. He half opened his eyes and squinted at the room. Had there not been a man with an ugly club? Yes, there had been such a man. And had not Marion Kerby done violence to this person? The fact was not to be denied. Topper was clear about that.
“What a life,” he thought to himself. “What a series of calamities. Every morning I wake up in a different place and under more depressing circumstances. It’s like a curse.”
Nevertheless, when he arose and stretched, he felt within himself a spirit of freedom and buoyancy that had never come to him during his more orderly régime. He liked the smell of the room. The forest had gathered close to the walls and drenched them with the fragrance of its fresh green life. And he liked the way the sunlight sprayed upon the matting. Matting was a pleasant sort of an arrangement. He enjoyed the way it felt on his bare feet. It made him think of swimming. Why it did he could not tell, but it did and that was enough. Topper could swim quite well. He was satisfied about his swimming. It was his only accomplishment. Marion Kerby would be surprised when she saw him in the water. His new bathing things were in the suit-case in her room. Rather bearishly he moved across the matting, examining unfamiliar objects and thinking half thoughts. One of these thoughts was connected with Marion Kerby’s room. It occurred to him that it really was not her room, nor was this one his. The rooms belonged to someone else. They were being unlawfully occupied. Topper trod the matting no longer like an aimless bear. His step was more like the stealthy tread of a criminal, a modest, unassuming criminal. He hurried to the open door between the two rooms and thrust in a frightened face.
“Get up,” he said. “We can’t stay here forever. The whole neighborhood will be down on us at any minute.”
No answer came from the bed for the reason that the bed was empty. As he regarded the tossed coverings an alarming suspicion chilled his heart.
“My God,” he thought, “she’s left me. At any other time I’d let her go gladly, but not now. She got me into this fix and she ought to get me out.”
With a heroic display of modesty, considering his overwrought condition, he flung on his bathrobe and hurried outside. The object of his quest was not in sight, but he found on the table a partially empty cup of coffee. The pot on the stove was still warm.
“She’s had coffee,” he thought bitterly. “She would. Then she left me without even a word — left me sleeping.”
He went to the door and peered miserably out on the sparkling face of the lake. The scene hurt his eyes. How could the world look so happy when he felt so sad? And how could he ever hope to escape in the full light of day with a suit-case in either hand? He was reluctant to face the day and was about to withdraw from it when something resembling a song floated to his ears. He recognized the voice and was filled with relief. The song drifted mournfully to him from somewhere close at hand.
“Oh, I was a daisy and highly adored,
The boys said as much to my face.
But now I’m a spirit and terribly bored
With oodles and oodles of space.”
Topper did not care for the words, nor was he impressed by the long-drawn-out plaintiveness of the voice, but he was overjoyed to know that the singer was approaching the cottage.
“Do you see that lake down there?” she asked, pointing to the valley.
“I do now,” he replied, “but I hadn’t noticed it before. It looks so lost among the trees.”
“That’s just what it is,” she answered. “Years ago that little lake strayed away from its mother, and ever since then these hills have been nursing it here in secret. And every year the mother lake sends the streams and rivers in search of her lost lakelet, but these hills, which are inclined to be barren, consider the foundling as theirs and jealously keep it locked away in the valley.”
“Well,” remarked Mr. Topper, after a short pause, “now that you’ve about rung the change on that theme, let’s go down and take a look at this lost lake of yours. Perhaps there’s some food to be found.”
“No doubt there is, you prosaic beast,” the girl replied as she started the machine. “There used to be a store at one end.”
As the car descended the winding way the road grew deeper in shadows, and when they reached the border of the lake a dim film of daylight still lingered over its still surface as if reluctant to leave this quiet spot.
To Mr. Topper the lake seemed truly lost. And everything about the place partook of the same atmosphere. On its shores he could distinguish only a few cottages and even these had an abandoned look about them. He felt that they must have crept away from some populous summer colony and hidden themselves among the trees to rest. About halfway up the opposite hill a large stone house cut a breach in the trees. A few lights twinkled in the upper windows, these golden specks of life serving only to intensify the solitude of the scene. For the first time in his life Mr. Topper felt really secure from the world and all its works. In such a place as this Marion Kerby could do her worst without disturbing his peace of mind. It occurred to Mr. Topper that it would be a delightful sensation to strip himself naked and go running through the trees, to feel the night on his body and to meet the earth like a free, unabashed creature of the earth. This was a radical thought for Mr. Topper, and happily, some may feel, a passing one. It left him slightly sobered.
“Have you ever been here before?” he asked, sensing the precarious condition of his mind.
“Didn’t I just tell you?” she answered. “I’ve been here lots of times. I used to come here to hide from George when he got on my nerves.”
“God grant that we may be as successful this time,” Mr. Topper breathed with unfeigned sincerity.
“Don’t worry your head about him,” she replied carelessly. “He’s probably sound asleep in some low café at this very minute. We’ll drive down to the other end in search of food and shelter.”
“Is there some sort of an inn about?”
“No, but the cottages look deserted.”
Mr. Topper did not entertain with enthusiasm the prospect of breaking into a deserted cottage, but as the only other alternative lay in sleeping in the automobile he held his peace.
At the end of the lake they found a small store from which they purchased provisions of a compressed nature. By the time they had completed their transactions under the suspicious eye of the storekeeper daylight had faded from the face of the lake. A world of stars looked down on them and showered the dark water with a spray of golden coins, which danced and sparkled whenever a breeze moved from the shore.
“We’ll have to park the car on this side,” Marion Kerby said in a low voice. “The road ends here. We can walk round to the cottages by the path.”
They arranged the automobile for the night and Mr. Topper, taking a suit-case in either hand, followed his guide along a root-filled path. From time to time he tripped and cursed bitterly, but Marion Kerby urged him on to greater efforts with derisive words of encouragement. After passing two cottages steeped in shadows, she selected the third and more imposing one. Leaving Topper perspiring on the veranda with his luggage, she disappeared in the darkness. After what seemed to him an eternity of time he was startled to hear the door opening stealthily behind him.
“It’s all jake,” Marion whispered. “I found a reasonable window. Bring in the bags. This is a plush abode.”
“It may be plush to you,” he grumbled, stumbling in with the bags, “but to me it’s far from homelike. We don’t even know the owners.”
“Would you like to meet them?” she asked from the darkness.
“Not at this minute,” he admitted, dropping the bags to the floor. “Light up and let’s see where we are.”
With the lighting of a candle the house sprang into terrifying reality to Mr. Topper. Every corner contained a shadow and every shadow contained a possible danger. But Marion Kerby was delighted. The house, after a swift investigation, proved to be in a fair state of order. There were beds and they were ready to receive occupants. Other equipment was present. Most gratifying of all there was an oil stove all ready to fulfill its destiny. These discoveries which, to Marion Kerby, were occasions for congratulation were, to Mr. Topper, sources of dismay. As Marion flitted cheerfully round the place he edged towards the door.
“Stop chirping like that!” he exclaimed at last. “It’s all clear to me. The owners have just gone out. They’ll be back at any moment. Let’s go.”
“You’d make a dangerous detective,” she answered. “Doesn’t your nose tell you that this place hasn’t been open since last summer? Look at this glass. It’s dusty. And the table. I could write your name on it.”
“Don’t,” said Mr. Topper. “Write yours. I require no publicity.”
“Come back here then and sit down,” she replied. “I’m going to air out the beds in our room.”
Mr. Topper looked at her in blank astonishment.
“Do you mean to tell me,” he finally managed to get out, “that in spite of all the beds in this house you’re so depraved as to insist on sleeping with me?”
“I just thought it would be more fun.”
“Fun,” he repeated. “What has that to do with it? It might be fun to live in a harem, but right-thinking men don’t do it. Fun fills the divorce courts and digs untimely graves. Anyway, under the circumstances, I don’t feel funny.”
“Why don’t you get up on the table and preach down at me?” she jeered. “Bring me back to the fold. Point the way to salvation.”
“You should know more about the hereafter than I do,” he remarked moodily.
She came over to him and placed her hands on his shoulders. He stepped back and tried to avoid her eyes.
“Now don’t begin to coax me,” he said. “I won’t hear a word of it. It was bad enough before you materialized, but now it is utterly out of the question. Absolutely.”
“Aw, give us a kiss,” was all she said, and she took it.
Topper, though remarkably pleased, remained adamant, and after a certain amount of haggling they arrived at a compromise. They would occupy connecting rooms. Topper thought that that was compromising enough.
“You know,” she explained to him, “it’s better that I should sleep close by so that I can protect you in case somebody comes.”
This last argument struck Mr. Topper with so much force that he was tempted to ask her to disregard his previous objections. His conventional training, however, overcame his natural timidity.
While Marion Kerby was preparing a supper of soup, beans and coffee he watched her with a mixture of admiration and dread. And when at last she placed the provender before him, dread faded away and only admiration remained. Truly she was a remarkable woman for one so loose. He thought of his wife and sighed. Then his thoughts reverted to Scollops. He wondered how life was treating his cat, and whether or not she still slept in his chair. While wondering he ate diligently with the appetite of a famished man. Food had never meant so much to Mr. Topper. Presently he halted and looked up from his plate.
“Do you like cats?” he asked.
Before his companion had time to answer Mr. Topper’s jaw dropped, his face changed color, and with dilated eyes he gazed over her shoulder. For a moment she was too startled to complete her chewing. Then she rose from her chair and hurried to him.
“Are you choking?” she asked. “Can’t you swallow?”
And with this she began to pound him on the back. Mr. Topper almost fell from his chair.
“I’m not choking,” he gasped, “but I can’t swallow. Oh, look!”
Marion was too alarmed to heed his words. She stopped thumping and began to tear at his shirt.
“I’ll open your collar,” she said, “and then you’ll feel better.”
At this Mr. Topper returned to speech.
“Hell, no!” he shouted. “Don’t open my collar. Open a window instead. He’s standing in the doorway right behind you.”
In an instant the situation was clear to Marion Kerby. Slowly and with great dignity she turned and beheld a rough-looking individual standing exactly where Mr. Topper had said, in the doorway. In one hand he held a lantern, in the other an ugly-looking stick.
“Will you be good enough to tell me just what you are doing here?” she asked in a calm voice.
The man hesitated and looked at her with a surprised expression.
“Protecting the master’s property,” he replied. “He don’t allow squatters here.”
“Squatters,” she replied in a puzzled voice. “Squatters? Now what exactly are squatters? Sounds like some sort of a pigeon, or perhaps a fish. Are squatters fish?”
“If yer don’t understand what squatters is,” said the man, “I’ll change it to house breakers, trespassers, undesirable people, thieves, loafers — —”
“It’s quite clear,” interrupted the girl. “Don’t go on. Now tell me who is the master you referred to?”
“He’s Mr. Wilbur,” the man replied.
“And where is he now?”
“He’s in Europe, that’s where he is.”
“How odd,” she mused. “So is my husband.”
“I’m her brother,” put in Mr. Topper in consternation. “Her eldest brother. We’re nice people and . . .”
The man glared at Mr. Topper and raised his stick threateningly. Mr. Topper sank back in his chair.
“Leave this to me,” Marion whispered quickly, then advanced on the unwelcome visitor.
“For some unfortunate reason,” she said, “I haven’t taken a fancy to you. It might not be your fault. I hope it isn’t, but the fact remains that now you must go. Take your little lantern and swagger stick and hop off. If not, God protect you.”
“Quit yer bluffing,” replied the man, “or I’ll use this club on the both of yer.”
Then a strange and terrible thing took place. The woman, facing the intruder, crumpled to the floor. Nothing remained of her save an inert bundle of clothing. Even Mr. Topper, as accustomed as he was to unexpected occurrences, sat horrified in his chair. The man looked down at the clothing and strove to collect his wits.
“She’s fainted,” he suggested, looking hopefully at Topper.
Mr. Topper began to laugh hysterically.
“What’s that?” asked the man suddenly as his hat snapped down over his eyes. He raised his hands to his hat, then quickly transferred them to his stomach. As the stick fell to the floor it was seized by an invisible hand and brandished in the air. With great force and accuracy it descended on the now prominent region of his reverse exposure, causing him to snap erect. His face was a study in terror as he fell on his hands and knees and began to crawl to the door.
“Here’s your lantern!” a voice cried. “Clear out quick!”
The voice was too much for the man. He staggered to his feet and without waiting for the lantern fled from the cottage; the lantern, following in close pursuit, danced crazily in the darkness. Mr. Topper could trace the retreat of the man by the crashing of the bushes and the cries that disturbed the night. Gradually these sounds subsided and silence settled down. Some minutes later the bundle of clothing began to stir. Mr. Topper saw a confused mass of feminine apparel arrange itself in the air and assume the outlines of a woman. He closed his eyes to blot out the sight and when he opened them again Marion Kerby was standing before him.
“What were you saying about cats?” she asked, seating herself on the table.
“I don’t know,” said Mr. Topper. “Was I saying anything about cats?”
“It doesn’t matter,” she replied. “That bird won’t be back to-night. I couldn’t get him to take his lantern so I was forced to throw it at him.”
She slid over to the dejected Topper and, curving an arm round his shoulder, sat heavily on his lap. Too weak to protest, he allowed her to sip his coffee.
“I doubt if he ever comes back,” she added reflectively.
“What do you mean?” asked Mr. Topper uneasily. “I hope you didn’t kill him or maim him for life. Did you?”
“Not quite,” she replied. “Almost though. He called us squatters. I don’t mind about myself, but I can’t bear to think of you as a squatter.”
“I don’t mind being called a squatter,” said Mr. Topper thoughtfully, “but I couldn’t stand that club of his. Every time I looked at the thing it gave me the shivers. There were knobs on it.”
Marion Kerby jumped from his knees and squeezed his hand.
“Don’t think of him any more,” she said. “Let’s go outside and contemplate the stars.”
“I hope that’s all we’ll contemplate,” replied Mr. Topper.
They sat on the steps of the veranda and Marion rested her head on Mr. Topper’s knee. Once more he thought of Scollops. Then he looked down into the girl’s eyes and saw that in them, too, there was an expression he could not fathom, but on this occasion he was thrilled instead of being troubled.
“You know,” she remarked, smiling up at him, “you’re not my eldest brother. You’re my first and only child.”
“Well, from the way you’re bringing me up,” he replied, “you must be one of those Spartan mothers I read about in school.”
“Sure I am,” she answered. “I’ll make a man of you yet.”
“Then keep the door open between us,” said Mr. Topper. “I’m feeling far from well. If I dream about clubs to-night I’m likely to die in my sleep.”
He lit a cigar and looked down on the lake.
“Nice night,” he suggested.
“Swell,” she replied, snuggling closer to him. “I’ll try a cigar, too.”
CHAPTER XVI
ENTER THE COLONEL AND MRS. HART
A SHAFT OF hazy sunlight sifting through moist green leaves found its way into Mr. Topper’s room. After fingering the bedspread delicately it finally crept up to his strangely innocent-looking face, now lying unprotected beneath a nocturnal gathering of whiskers. Topper stirred fretfully and rolled over on his side. In his heart there was a fierce desire to remain oblivious of life, but somewhere within his subconscious lurked a painful suspicion that all was not well with the world, or at least, that part of the world which he, Topper, personally occupied. He half opened his eyes and squinted at the room. Had there not been a man with an ugly club? Yes, there had been such a man. And had not Marion Kerby done violence to this person? The fact was not to be denied. Topper was clear about that.
“What a life,” he thought to himself. “What a series of calamities. Every morning I wake up in a different place and under more depressing circumstances. It’s like a curse.”
Nevertheless, when he arose and stretched, he felt within himself a spirit of freedom and buoyancy that had never come to him during his more orderly régime. He liked the smell of the room. The forest had gathered close to the walls and drenched them with the fragrance of its fresh green life. And he liked the way the sunlight sprayed upon the matting. Matting was a pleasant sort of an arrangement. He enjoyed the way it felt on his bare feet. It made him think of swimming. Why it did he could not tell, but it did and that was enough. Topper could swim quite well. He was satisfied about his swimming. It was his only accomplishment. Marion Kerby would be surprised when she saw him in the water. His new bathing things were in the suit-case in her room. Rather bearishly he moved across the matting, examining unfamiliar objects and thinking half thoughts. One of these thoughts was connected with Marion Kerby’s room. It occurred to him that it really was not her room, nor was this one his. The rooms belonged to someone else. They were being unlawfully occupied. Topper trod the matting no longer like an aimless bear. His step was more like the stealthy tread of a criminal, a modest, unassuming criminal. He hurried to the open door between the two rooms and thrust in a frightened face.
“Get up,” he said. “We can’t stay here forever. The whole neighborhood will be down on us at any minute.”
No answer came from the bed for the reason that the bed was empty. As he regarded the tossed coverings an alarming suspicion chilled his heart.
“My God,” he thought, “she’s left me. At any other time I’d let her go gladly, but not now. She got me into this fix and she ought to get me out.”
With a heroic display of modesty, considering his overwrought condition, he flung on his bathrobe and hurried outside. The object of his quest was not in sight, but he found on the table a partially empty cup of coffee. The pot on the stove was still warm.
“She’s had coffee,” he thought bitterly. “She would. Then she left me without even a word — left me sleeping.”
He went to the door and peered miserably out on the sparkling face of the lake. The scene hurt his eyes. How could the world look so happy when he felt so sad? And how could he ever hope to escape in the full light of day with a suit-case in either hand? He was reluctant to face the day and was about to withdraw from it when something resembling a song floated to his ears. He recognized the voice and was filled with relief. The song drifted mournfully to him from somewhere close at hand.
“Oh, I was a daisy and highly adored,
The boys said as much to my face.
But now I’m a spirit and terribly bored
With oodles and oodles of space.”
Topper did not care for the words, nor was he impressed by the long-drawn-out plaintiveness of the voice, but he was overjoyed to know that the singer was approaching the cottage.
