Green Fancy | Page 7

to walk."
"Up against poor business, I presume?"
"Up against no business at all," said Mr. Dillingford. "We couldn't even
get 'em to come in on passes. Last Saturday night we had out enough
paper to fill the house and, by gosh, only eleven people showed up.
You can't beat that, can you? Three of 'em paid to get in. That made a
dollar and a half, box office. We nearly had to give it back."
"Bad weather?" suggested Barnes feelingly. He had removed his wet
coat, and stood waiting.
"Nope. Moving pictures. They'd sooner pay ten cents to see a movie

than to come in and see us free. The old man was so desperate he tried
to kill himself the morning we arrived at this joint."
"You mean the star? Poison, rope or pistol?"
"Whiskey. He tried to drink himself to death. Before old Jones got onto
him he had put down seven dollars' worth of booze, and now we've got
to help wipe out the account. But why complain? It's all in a day's--"
The cracked bell on the office desk interrupted him, somewhat
peremptorially. Mr. Dillingford's face assumed an expression of
profound dignity. He lowered his voice as he gave vent to the
following:
"That man Jones is the meanest human being God ever let--Yes, sir,
coming, sir!" He started for the open door with surprising alacrity.
"Never mind the hot water," said Barnes, sorry for the little man.
"No use," said Mr. Dillingford dejectedly. "He charges ten cents for hot
water. You've got to have it whether you want it or not. Remember that
you are in the very last stages of New England. The worst affliction
known to the human race. So long. I'll be back in two shakes of a
lamb's--" The remainder of his promise was lost in the rush of exit.
Barnes surveyed the little bed-chamber. It was just what he had
expected it would be. The walls were covered with a garish paper
selected by one who had an eye but not a taste for colour: bright pink
flowers that looked more or less like chunks of a shattered water melon
spilt promiscuously over a background of pearl grey. There was every
indication that it had been hung recently. Indeed there was a distinct
aroma of fresh flour paste. The bedstead, bureau and washstand were
likewise offensively modern. Everything was as clean as a pin,
however, and the bed looked comfortable. He stepped to the small,
many-paned window and looked out into the night. The storm was at its
height. In all his life he never had heard such a clatter of rain, nor a
wind that shrieked so appallingly.

His thoughts went quite naturally to the woman who was out there in
the thick of it. He wondered how she was faring, and lamented that she
was not in his place now and he in hers. A smile lighted his eyes. She
had such a nice voice and such a quaint way of putting things into
words. What was she doing up in this God-forsaken country? And how
could she be so certain of that grumpy old man whom she had never
laid eyes on before? What was the name of the place she was bound for?
Green Fancy! What an odd name for a house! And what sort of house--
His reflections were interrupted by the return of Mr. Dillingford, who
carried a huge pewter pitcher from which steam arose in volume. At his
heels strode a tall, cadaverous person in a checked suit.
Never had Barnes seen anything quite so overpowering in the way of a
suit. Joseph's coat of many colours was no longer a vision of childhood.
It was a reality. The checks were an inch square, and each cube had a
narrow border of azure blue. The general tone was a dirty grey, due no
doubt to age and a constitution that would not allow it to outlive its
usefulness.
"Meet Mr. Bacon, Mr. Barnes," introduced Mr. Dillingford, going to
the needless exertion of indicating Mr. Bacon with a generous sweep of
his free hand. "Our heavy leads. Mr. Montague Bacon, also of New
York."
"Ham and eggs, pork tenderloin, country sausage, rump steak and
spring chicken," said Mr. Bacon, in a cavernous voice, getting it over
with while the list was fresh in his memory. "Fried and boiled potatoes,
beans, succotash, onions, stewed tomatoes and--er--just a moment,
please. Fried and boiled potatoes, beans--"
"Learn your lines, Ague," said Mr. Dillingford, from the washstand.
"We call him Ague for short, Mr. Barnes, because he's always shaky
with his lines."
"Ham and eggs, potatoes and a cup or two of coffee," said Barnes,
suppressing a desire to laugh.

"And apple pie," concluded the waiter, triumphantly. "I knew I'd