A Good Samaritan | Page 9

that in geology lesson when I was fifteen,"
he went on. "Got lodged in crack in brain and there tish t' thish day!
Every now'n then I go 'flip,'"--he appeared to pull a light lever situated
in his head--"'n fire it off. See? Always hit something."
It was ten o'clock when, the job lot of telegrams despatched, Fairfax led
his volcano from the hotel and headed for the apartment house. He
expected another balk at the entrance, for his round of gaiety had come
now to seem to him eternal--he could hardly imagine a life in which he
was not conducting a tipsy man through a maze of experiences. So that
it was one of the surprises of the evening when Strong entered quietly
and with perfect deportment took his place in the elevator and got out
again, eight floors up, with the mildness of a dove. At the door of the
apartment came the last brief but sharp action of the campaign.
"Recky," he said, taking Fairfax's shoulders in his great grasp, "no
mother could be t' me what you've been."
"I hope not," Rex responded promptly, but Strong was not to be
side-tracked.

"No mother 'n the world--not one--no sir!" he went on. His voice broke
with feeling. "I'll nev' forget it--nev'--don't ask me to," he insisted.
"Dear Recky--blessed old tomfool--I'm go'n kiss you good-night."
"You bet you're not," said Fairfax with emphasis. "Let go of me, you
idiot," and he tried to loosen the hands on his shoulders.
But one of the most powerful men in New York had him in his grip,
and Rex found himself suddenly folded in Billy's arms, while a chaste
salute was planted full on his mouth. As he emerged a second later,
disgusted and furious, from this tender embrace, the clang of the
elevator twenty feet away caught his ear and, turning, his eyes met the
astonished gaze of two young girls and their scornful, frowning father.
At that moment the door of the Strongs' apartment opened, there was a
vision of the elder Mr. Strong's distracted face, the yellow gleam of the
last telegram in his hands, and Rex fled.
* * * * *
Two weeks later, a May breeze rustling through the greenness of the
quadrangle, brushed softly the ivy-clad brick walls, and stole, like a
runaway child to its playmate, through an open window of the
Theological Seminary building at Chelsea Square. Entering so, it
flapped suddenly at the white curtains as if astonished. What was this?
Two muscular black clad arms were stretched across a table, and
between them lay a brown head, inert, hopeless. It seemed strange that
on such a May day, with such a May breeze, life could look dark to
anything young, yet Reginald Fairfax, at the head of the graduating
class, easily first in more than one way--in scholarship, in athletics, in
versatility, and, more than all, like George Washington, "first in the
hearts of his countrymen," the most popular man of the Seminary--this
successful and well beloved young person sat wretched and restless in
his room and let the breeze blow over his prostrate head and his idle,
nerveless hands. Since the night of the rescue of Billy Strong he had
felt himself another and a worse man. He sent a note to his cousin the
next day.
"Dear Carty," it read, "For mercy sake let me alone. I know I've lost my

chance at St. Eric's and I know you'll say it was my own fault. I don't
want to hear either statement, so don't come near me till I hunt you up,
which I will do when I'm fit to talk to a white man. I'm grateful, though
you may not believe it. Yours--Rex."
But the lost chance at St. Eric's, although it was coming to weigh
heavily on his buoyant spirit, was not the worst of his troubles. The girl
from Orange--there lay the sting. He had sent her a note as well, but
there was little he was free to say without betraying Billy, the note was
mostly vague expressions of regret, and Rex knew her clearheaded
directness too well to hope that it would count for much. No answer
had come, and, day by day, he had grown more dejected, hoping
against hope for one.
A knock--the postman's knock--and Rex started and sprang to the door.
One letter, but he could hardly believe his glad eyes when he saw the
address on it, for it was the handwriting which he had come to know
well, had known well, seeing it once--her handwriting. In a moment the
jagged-edged envelope, torn in a desperate hurry to get what it held, lay
one side, and he was reading.
"Dear Mr. Fairfax": the letter ran; "For two weeks I have been