The Second Generation | Page 3

was over; his father knew the worst. "If the governor only
knew the world better," he said to himself, "he'd know that at every
college the best fellows always skate along the edge of the thin ice. But
he doesn't, and so he thinks he's disgraced." He lit another cigarette by
way of consolation and clarification.
When the father reappeared, dressed for the street, he was apparently
unconscious of the cigarette. They walked home in silence--a
striking-looking pair, with their great similar forms and their handsome
similar faces, typical impersonations of the first generation that is
sowing in labor, and the second generation that is reaping in idleness.
"Oh!" exclaimed Arthur, as they entered the Ranger place and began to
ascend the stone walk through the lawns sloping down from the big,
substantial-looking, creeper-clad house. "I stopped at Cleveland half a

day, on the way West, and brought Adelaide along." He said this with
elaborate carelessness; in fact, he had begged her to come that she
might once more take her familiar and highly successful part of buffer
between him and his father's displeasure.
The father's head lifted, and the cloud over his face also. "How is she?"
he asked. "Bang up!" answered Arthur. "She's the sort of a sister a
man's proud of--looks and style, and the gait of a thoroughbred." He
interrupted himself with a laugh. "There she is, now!" he exclaimed.
This was caused by the appearance, in the open front doors, of a strange
creature with a bright pink ribbon arranged as a sort of cockade around
and above its left ear--a brown, hairy, unclean-looking thing that gazed
with human inquisitiveness at the approaching figures. As the elder
Ranger drew down his eyebrows the creature gave a squeak of alarm
and, dropping from a sitting position to all fours, wheeled and
shambled swiftly along the wide hall, walking human fashion with its
hind feet, dog fashion with its fore feet or arms.
At first sight of this apparition Ranger halted. He stared with an
expression so astounded that Arthur laughed outright.
"What was that?" he now demanded.
"Simeon," replied Arthur. "Del has taken on a monk. It's the latest fad."
"Oh!" ejaculated Ranger. "Simeon."
"She named it after grandfather--and there is a--" Arthur stopped short.
He remembered that "Simeon" was his father's father; perhaps his
father might not see the joke. "That is," he explained, "she was looking
for a name, and I thought of 'simian,' naturally, and that, of course,
suggested 'Simeon'--and--"
"That'll do," said Hiram, in a tone of ominous calm which his family
knew was the signal that a subject must be dropped.
Now there was a quick froufrou of skirts, and from the sitting room to

the left darted a handsome, fair girl of nineteen, beautifully dressed in a
gray summer silk with simple but effectively placed bands of pink
embroidery on blouse and skirt. As she bounded down the steps and
into her father's arms her flying skirts revealed a pair of long, narrow
feet in stylish gray shoes and gray silk stockings exactly matching the
rest of her costume. "Daddy! Daddy!" she cried.
His arms were trembling as they clasped her--were trembling with the
emotion that surged into her eyes in the more obvious but less
significant form of tears. "Glad to see you, Delia," was all he said.
She put her slim white forefinger on his lips.
He smiled. "Oh! I forgot. You're Adelaide, of course, since you've
grown up."
"Why call me out of my name?" she demanded, gayly. "You should
have christened me Delia if you had wanted me named that."
"I'll try to remember, next time," he said, meekly. His gray eyes were
dancing and twinkling like sunbeams pouring from breaches in a spent
storm-cloud; there was an eloquence of pleasure far beyond laughter's
in the rare, infrequent eye smiles from his sober, strong face.
Now there was a squeaking and chattering behind them. Adelaide
whirled free of her father's arms and caught up the monkey. "Put out
your hand, sir," said she, and she kissed him. Her father shuddered, so
awful was the contrast between the wizened, dirty-brown face and her
roselike skin and fresh fairness. "Put out your hand and bow, sir," she
went on. "This is Mr. Hiram Ranger, Mr. Simeon. Mr. Simeon, Mr.
Ranger; Mr. Ranger, Mr. Simeon."
Hiram, wondering at his own weakness, awkwardly took the paw so
uncannily like a mummied hand. "What did you do this for, Adelaide?"
said he, in a tone of mild remonstrance where he had intended to be
firm.
"He's so fascinating, I couldn't resist. He's so wonderfully human--"

"That's it," said her father; "so--so--"
"Loathsomely human," interjected Arthur.
"Loathsome," said the father.
"That impression soon wears off," assured Adelaide, "and he's just like
a human being as