The Air Trust | Page 9

Flint demanded, recognizing the
suave tones of his partner's valet.
"Yes, sir."
"All right. Tell Waldron I'll call for him in half an hour with the
limousine. And mind, now, I want him to be up and dressed! We're
going down to Staten Island. Got that?"

"Yes, sir. Any other message, sir?"
"No. But be sure you get him up, for me! Good-bye!"
Thirty minutes later, Flint's chauffeur opened the door of the big
limousine, in front of the huge Renaissance pile that Waldron's millions
had raised on land which had cost him more than as though he had
covered it with double eagles; and Flint himself ascended the steps of
Pentelican marble. The limousine, its varnish and silver-plate flashing
in the bright spring sun, stood by the curb, purring softly to itself with
all six cylinders, a thing of matchless beauty and rare cost. The
chauffeur, on the driver's seat, did not even bother to shut off the gas,
but let the engine run, regardless. To have stopped it would have meant
some trifling exertion, in starting again; and since Flint never
considered such details as a few gallons of gasoline, why should he
care? Lighting a Turkish cigarette, this aristocrat of labor lolled on the
padded leather and indifferently--with more of contempt than of
interest--regarded a swarm of iron-workers, masons and laborers at
work on a new building across the avenue.
Flint, meanwhile, had entered the great mansion, its bronze
doors--ravished from the Palazzo Guelfo at Venice--having swung
inward to admit him, with noiseless majesty. Ignoring the doorman, he
addressed himself to Edwards, who stood in the spacious,
mahogany-panelled hall, washing both hands with imaginary soap.
"Waldron up, yet, Edwards?"
"No, sir. He--er--I have been unable--"
"The devil! Where is he?"
"In his apartments, sir."
"Take me up!"
"He said, sir," ventured Edwards, in his smoothest voice. "He said--"

"I don't give a damn what he said! Take me up, at once!"
"Yes, sir. Immediately, sir!" And he gestured suavely toward the
elevator.
Flint strode down the hall, indifferent to the Kirmanshah rugs, the rare
mosaic floor and stained-glass windows, the Parian fountain and the
Azeglio tapestries that hung suspended up along the stairway--all old
stories to him and as commonplace as rickety odds and ends of
furniture might be to any toiler "cribbed, cabin'd and confined" in fetid
East Side tenement or squalid room on Hester Street.
The elevator boy bowed before his presence. Edwards hesitated to enter
the private elevator, with this world-master; but Flint beckoned him to
come along. And so, borne aloft by the smooth force of the electric
motor, they presently reached the upper floor where "Tiger" Waldron
laired in stately splendor, like the nabob that he was.
Without ceremony, Flint pushed forward into the bed-chamber of the
mighty one--a chamber richly finished in panels of the rare sea-grape
tree, brought from Pacific isles at great cost of money and some
expenditure of human lives; but this latter item was, of course, beneath
consideration.
By the softened light which entered through rich curtains, one saw the
famous frieze of De Lussac, that banded the apartment, over the
panelling--the frieze of Bacchantes, naked and unashamed, revelling
with Satyrs in an abandon that bespoke the age when the world was
young. Their voluptuous forms entwined with clustering grapes and
leaves, they poured tipsy libations of red wine from golden chalices;
while old Silenus, god of drink, astride a donkey, applauded with
maudlin joy.
Flint, however, had no eyes for this scene which would have gladdened
a voluptuary's heart--and which, for that reason was dear to
Waldron--but walked toward the huge, four-posted bed where Wally
himself, now rather paler than usual, with bloodshot eyes, was lying.
This bed, despite the fact that it had been transported all the way from

Tours, France, and that it once had belonged to an archbishop, had only
too often witnessed its owner's insomnia.
"Hm! You're a devil of a man to keep an appointment, aren't you?"
Flint sneered at the master of the house. "Eleven o'clock, and not up,
yet!"
"Pardon me for remarking, my dear Flint," replied Waldron, stretching
himself between the silken sheets and reaching for a cigarette, "that the
appointment was not of my making. Also that I was up, last night--this
morning, rather--till three-thirty. And in the next place, that scoundrel
Hazeltine, trimmed me out of eighty-six thousand in four hours--"
"Roulette again, you idiot?" demanded Flint.
"And in conclusion," said Wally, "that the bigness of my head and the
brown taste in my mouth are such as no 'soda and sermons, the morning
after' can possibly alleviate. So you understand my dalliance.
"Damn those workmen!" he exclaimed, with sudden irritation, as a
louder chattering of pneumatic riveters from the new building all at
once clattered in at the