The Pit | Page 8

with the serious,
unsmiling face, who was so perfectly at ease, and who hustled him
about and made him feel as though he were to blame for the Cresslers'
non-appearance; as though it was his fault that she must wait in the
draughty vestibule. She had a great air with her; how had he offended
her? If he had introduced himself to her, had forced himself upon her,
she could not be more lofty, more reserved.
"I thought perhaps you might telephone," she observed.
"They haven't a telephone, unfortunately," he answered.
"Oh!"
This was quite the last slight, the Cresslers had not a telephone! He was
to blame for that, too, it seemed. At his wits' end, he entertained for an
instant the notion of dashing out into the street in a search for a
messenger boy, who would take a note to Cressler and set him right
again; and his agitation was not allayed when Laura, in frigid tones,
declared:
"It seems to me that something might be done."
"I don't know," he replied helplessly. "I guess there's nothing to be
done but just wait. They are sure to be along."
In the background, Page and Mrs. Wessels had watched the interview,
and had guessed that Laura was none too gracious. Always anxious that
her sister should make a good impression, the little girl was now in
great distress.
"Laura is putting on her 'grand manner,'" she lamented. "I just know
how she's talking. The man will hate the very sound of her name all the
rest of his life." Then all at once she uttered a joyful exclamation: "At
last, at last," she cried, "and about time, too!"
The Cresslers and the rest of the party--two young men--had appeared,

and Page and her aunt came up just in time to hear Mrs. Cressler--a fine
old lady, in a wonderful ermine-trimmed cape, whose hair was
powdered--exclaim at the top of her voice, as if the mere declaration of
fact was final, absolutely the last word upon the subject, "The bridge
was turned!"
The Cresslers lived on the North Side. The incident seemed to be
closed with the abruptness of a slammed door.
Page and Aunt Wess' were introduced to Jadwin, who was particular to
announce that he remembered the young girl perfectly. The two young
men were already acquainted with the Dearborn sisters and Mrs.
Wessels. Page and Laura knew one of them well enough to address him
familiarly by his Christian name.
This was Landry Court, a young fellow just turned twenty-three, who
was "connected with" the staff of the great brokerage firm of Gretry,
Converse and Co. He was astonishingly good-looking, small-made,
wiry, alert, nervous, debonair, with blond hair and dark eyes that
snapped like a terrier's. He made friends almost at first sight, and was
one of those fortunate few who were favoured equally of men and
women. The healthiness of his eye and skin persuaded to a belief in the
healthiness of his mind; and, in fact, Landry was as clean without as
within. He was frank, open-hearted, full of fine sentiments and
exaltations and enthusiasms. Until he was eighteen he had cherished an
ambition to become the President of the United States.
"Yes, yes," he said to Laura, "the bridge was turned. It was an
imposition. We had to wait while they let three tows through. I think
two at a time is as much as is legal. And we had to wait for three. Yes,
sir; three, think of that! I shall look into that to- morrow. Yes, sir; don't
you be afraid of that. I'll look into it." He nodded his head with
profound seriousness.
"Well," announced Mr. Cressler, marshalling the party, "shall we go in?
I'm afraid, Laura, we've missed the overture."
Smiling, she shrugged her shoulders, while they moved to the wicket,
as if to say that it could not be helped now.
Cressler, tall, lean, bearded, and stoop-shouldered, belonging to the
same physical type that includes Lincoln--the type of the Middle
West--was almost a second father to the parentless Dearborn girls. In
Massachusetts, thirty years before this time, he had been a farmer, and

the miller Dearborn used to grind his grain regularly. The two had been
boys together, and had always remained fast friends, almost brothers.
Then, in the years just before the War, had come the great movement
westward, and Cressler had been one of those to leave an "abandoned"
New England farm behind him, and with his family emigrate toward
the Mississippi. He had come to Sangamon County in Illinois. For a
time he tried wheat-raising, until the War, which skied the prices of all
food-stuffs, had made him--for those days--a rich man. Giving up
farming, he came to live in Chicago, bought a seat on the Board