A Good Samaritan | Page 5

to tha' girl. You go meet her 'n' tell her you got me drunk," he concluded with a radiant smile.
Rex considered. There seemed to be enough method in Strong's madness to justify the belief that he had an engagement. If so, he must by all means wait and trust to luck to pick out the "lovely blue-eyed girlie" who was the "party of the other part," and hope for an inspiration as to what to tell her. She might be with or without a chaperone, she might be any variety of the species, but Strong seemed to be quite clear that she had blue eyes.
The crowd from the incoming boat began to unload into the ferry-house, and Rex placed himself anxiously by the entrance. Three or four thin men scurried in advance, then a bunch of stout and middle-aged persons straggled along puffing. Then came a set of young people in theater array, chattering and laughing as they hurried, and another set, and another--the main body of the little army was upon him. Rex scanned them for a girl alone or a girl with her mother. Ah! here she was--this must be Strong's "blue-eyed girlie." She was alone and pretty, a little under-bred and blond. Rex lifted his hat.
"I beg your pardon," he said, in his most winning way; "are you waiting for Mr. Strong?"
The girl threw up her head and looked frightened, and then angry.
"No, I am not," she said, and then, with a haughty look, "I call you pretty saucy," and Rex was left mortified and silent, while a passing man murmured, "Served you right," and a woman laughed scornfully. He stalked across to the tranquil form on the truck.
"Billy," he said, and shook a massive shoulder. "Wake up. Tell me that girl's name."
Strong opened his eyes like a baby waked from dewy sleep. "Wha's that, Recky--dear old Recky--bes' fren'----"
"Cut that out," said Rex, sharply. "Tell me the name of the girl you're waiting here to meet," and he laughed a short bitter laugh. The girl whom "Billy" was waiting to meet! Rex was getting tired and hungry.
Strong smiled a gentle, obstinate, tipsy smile and shook his head. "No, Recky, dear ol' fren'--bes' fren'--well, nev' min'. Can't tell girl's name; tha's her secret."
"Don't be an ass, Billy--quick, now, tell me the name."
"Naughty, naughty!" quoted Billy again, and waggled his forefinger. "Danger hell fire! Couldn' tell girl's name, Recky--be dishon'able. Couldn', no, couldn'. Anythin' else--ask m' anythin' else in all these wide worlds"--and he struck his breast with fervor. "Tell you anythin', Recky, but couldn' betray trustin' girl's secret."
"Billy, can't you give me an idea what the girl's like?" pleaded Rex desperately. Billy smiled up at him drowsily. "Perfectly good girl," he elucidated. "Good eyes, good wind, kind to mother--perfectly good girl in ev--every r-respect," he concluded, emphasizing his sentences by articulating them. He dropped his chin into his chest with a recumbent bow, and his arm described an impressive semicircle. "Present to her 'surances my most disting'shed consider-ration--soon's you find her," and he went flop on his side and was asleep.
Rex had to give it up. He heard the gates rattling open for the next boat-load, and took his stand again, bracing himself for another rebuff. The usual vanguard, the usual quicksilver bunch of humanity, massing, separating, flowing this way and that, and in the midst of them a fair-haired, timid-looking young girl, walking quietly with down-cast eyes, as if unused to being in big New York alone at eight o'clock at night. Rex stood in front of her with bared head.
"I beg your pardon," he repeated his formula; "are you looking for Mr. Strong?"
The startled eyes lifted to his a short second, then dropped again. "No, for Mr. Week," she answered softly, and unconscious of witticism, melted into the throng.
This was a heavy boat-load, for it was just theater time--they were still coming. And suddenly his heart bounded and stopped. Of course--he was utterly foolish not to have known--it was she--Billy Strong's bewitching cousin, the girl from Orange. There she stood with her big, brown eyes searching, gazing here and there, as lovely, as incongruous as a wood-nymph strayed into a political meeting. The feather of her hat tossed in the May breeze; the fading light from the window behind her shone through loose hair about her face, turned it into a soft dark aureole; the gray of her tailor gown was crisp and fresh as spring-time. To Rex's eyes no picture had ever been more satisfying.
Suddenly she caught sight of him, and her face lighted as if lamps had shone out of a twilight, and in a second he had her hand in his, and was talking away, with responsibility and worry, and that heavy weight on the truck back there, quite gone out of the