Trailin! | Page 6

box.
The tall man hesitated a moment and then started in pursuit, but the
mob intervened. He turned back to Werther.
"Did you get his name?" he asked.
"Fine bit of riding he showed, eh?" cried the little man, "and turned
down my thousand as cool as you please. I tell you, Drew, there's some
flint in the Easterners after all!"
"Damn the Easterners. What's his name?"
"Woodbury. Anthony Woodbury."
"Woodbury?"
"What's wrong with that name?"
"Nothing. Only I'm a bit surprised."
And he frowned with a puzzled, wistful expression, staring straight
ahead like a man striving to solve a great riddle.

CHAPTER III
SOCIAL SUICIDE
At his box, Woodbury stopped only to huddle into his coat and
overcoat and pull his hat down over his eyes. Then he hurried on
toward an exit, but even this slight delay brought the reporters up with
him. They had scented news as the eagle sights prey far below, and
then swooped down on him. He continued his flight shaking off their
harrying questions, but they kept up the running fight and at the door
one of them reached his side with: "It's Mr. Woodbury of the Westfall
Polo Club, son of Mr. John Woodbury of Anson Place?"
Anthony Woodbury groaned with dismay and clutched the grinning
reporter by the arm.
"Come with me!"
Prospects of a scoop of a sizable nature brightened the eyes of the
reporter. He followed in all haste, and the other news-gatherers, in
obedience to the exacting, unspoken laws of their craft, stood back and
followed the flight with grumbling envy.
On Twenty-Sixth Street, a little from the corner of Madison Avenue,
stood a big touring car with the chauffeur waiting in the front seat.
There were still some followers from the Garden.
Woodbury jumped into the back seat, drew the reporter after him, and
called: "Start ahead, Maclaren--drive anywhere, but get moving."
"Now, sir," turning to the reporter as the engine commenced to hum,
"what's your name?"
"Bantry."
"Bantry? Glad to know you."

He shook hands.
"You know me?"
"Certainly. I cover sports all the way from polo to golf. Anthony
Woodbury--Westfall Polo Club--then golf, tennis, trap shooting--"
"Enough!" groaned the victim. "Now look here, Bantry, you have me
dead to rights--got me with the goods, so to speak, haven't you?"
"It was a great bit of work; ought to make a first-page story."
And the other groaned again. "I know--son of millionaire rides
unbroken horse in Wild West show--and all that sort of thing. But,
good Lord, man, think what it will mean to me?"
"Nothing to be ashamed of, is it? Your father'll be proud of you."
Woodbury looked at him sharply.
"How do you know that?"
"Any man would be."
"But the notoriety, man! It would kill me with a lot of people as
thoroughly as if I'd put the muzzle of a gun in my mouth and pulled the
trigger."
"H-m!" muttered the reporter, "sort of social suicide, all right. But it's
news, Mr. Woodbury, and the editor--"
"Expects you to write as much as the rest of the papers print--and none
of the other reporters know me."
"One or two of them might have."
"But my dear fellow--won't you take a chance?"
Bantry made a wry face.

"Madison Square Garden," went on Woodbury bitterly. "Ten thousand
people looking on--gad, man, it's awful."
"Why'd you do it, then?"
"Couldn't help it, Bantry. By Jove, when that wicked devil of a horse
came at my box and I caught a glimpse of the red demon in his
eyes--why, man, I simply had to get down and try my luck. Ever play
football?"
"Yes, quite a while ago."
"Then you know how it is when you're in the bleachers and the whistle
blows for the game to begin. That's the way it was with me. I wanted to
climb down into the field--and I did. Once started, I couldn't stop until
I'd made a complete ass of myself in the most spectacular style. Now,
Bantry, I appeal to you for the sake of your old football days, don't
show me up--keep my name quiet."
"I'd like to--damned if I wouldn't--but--a scoop--"
Anthony Woodbury considered his companion with a strange yearning.
It might have been to take him by the throat; it might have been some
gentler motive, but his hand stole at last toward an inner coat pocket.
He said: "I know times are a bit lean now and then in your game,
Bantry. I wonder if you could use a bit of the long green? Just now I'm
very flush, and--"
He produced a thickly stuffed bill-fold, but Bantry smiled and touched
Woodbury's arm.
"Couldn't possibly, you know."
He considered a moment and then, with a smile: "It's a bit awkward for
both of us, isn't it?