Quarterman!' until our throats gave out.

"Then I heard a quick, sharp bark, followed by a series of short yelps, not fifty yards away. Next there came a faint halloo, a man's voice. We pushed on, and there, about ten yards from hard ground, we found Quarterman stretched out, the setter squatting beside him. He had slipped into a hole some hours before, had broken his ankle, and had made up his mind to wait until daylight, the pain, every time he moved, almost making him faint. He was soaked to the skin and shivering with cold. We helped him up on one foot, carried him to dry land, and finally got him home; the dog following at a respectful distance.

"After we had put Quarterman to bed and had sent a man off on horseback to Pottsburg for a doctor, I looked up the setter. He was in his old place on the porch, stretched out under one of the wooden benches, his nose resting on his paws--just as Chief lies here now--thinking the whole situation over. He raised his head for an instant, licked my hand and looked up inquiringly into my face as if expecting some further service might be required of him; then he dropped his head again and kept on thinking. n.o.body had bothered himself about him; they hadn't even thanked him in their hearts. Nothing to thank him for. Childish to think of it! All the setter had done was just being plain dog. Hunting up things was what he was born for.

"Next morning the dog turned up missing.

"Quarterman raised himself up on his elbow when he heard the news and said he must be found at any cost; he was worth five hundred dollars.

The men started out, of course; searched the stables, boat-houses, swamp, and fields clear down to the water's edge; whistled and called; did all the things you do when a dog is lost--but no setter. Everybody wondered why he ran away. Some said one thing, some another. I knew why.

_He had gone off in search of a gentleman._"

"Did Quarterman get well?" ventured Lonnegan.

"I don't know and I don't care. I left the next morning."

"Did Quarterman get his dog back?" asked Boggs.

"Not while I was there. I could have told him where to look for him, but I didn't. I saw him on a porch with some children about a week after that, when I was driving through a neighboring village--but I didn't send word to Quarterman. I had too much respect for the dog.

"Come here, old fellow," and Mac took the great head of the St. Bernard between his warm hands and the two snuggled their cheeks together.

PART VII

_Containing Mr. Alexander MacWhirter's Views on Lord Ponsonby, Major Yancey, and their Kind._

When I entered No. 3 to-day Mac was struggling with a small upright piano. He and Marny had rolled it out of Wharton's room at the end of the corridor, and the two had guided it between the open door and the screen of No. 3 and were now whirling it into the corner occupied by Mac's easel.

This done, the two began to make ready for the evening's entertainment.

The big divan where Mac slept was dragged from its shelter, covered with a rug, and placed against the wall facing the fireplace; the table was stripped of its junk (there is no other word for the miscellaneous collection of sketches, books, curios, matches, brushes, tubes of color, half-used bottles of siccative and the like, which always litters the table's surface), wiped clean, and placed at right angles with the divan; all the uncomfortable chairs moved out of sight; a stool backed up under the window to hold a keg of ice-cool beer, to be brought in later and wreathed with green; new and old mugs--those of the regular members, and brand new ones for the invited guests--lined up on the cleared table: all these shiftings, strippings, and refittings being especially designed for the comfort of a chosen few, who on these rare nights (only once a year) were admitted into the charmed half-circle that curved about the wood fire in No. 3.

These complete, Mac turned his attention to the lesser details: the stacking up of a pile of wood so that the rattling old fire would have logs enough with which to warm the latest guests, new or old, no matter how late they stayed; the hearth swept--all its "dear gray hair combed back from its rosy face with a broom" Mac used to call this process; the Chinese screen drawn the closer to keep out the wandering drafts; candles lighted in the old sconces, ancient candlesticks, and grimy Dutch lanterns; and last--and this he attended to himself--every vestige of the work of his own brush tucked out of sight so that not even Boggs could find one. There were strangers coming to-night--one a partner in a big banking house and a suspected buyer--and no canvas of his must be visible.

With the arrival of the keg of "special brew," carried on the shoulders of a big German from the street to the fifth floor without a pause, where it was propped up on the wooden stool and steadied by a stick of kindling wood, Mac opened the window of his studio and took from its sill a paper box filled with smilax--his own touch in remembrance of his Munich days. This he wound around the body of the cool keg with the enthusiasm of a virgin of old twisting garlands about the neck of a sacred bull. Loyalty to just such ideals is part of Mac's religion.

Pitkin arrived first, bringing with him the much-dreaded banker from whom Mac had hidden his pictures. The sculptor was at work on a bust of the rich man's wife, and the paymaster had begged so hard to be admitted into the charmed circle that Pitkin had singled him out as his guest.

Not that there was any valid reason why he or anyone else should be debarred its comforts, except upon the ground of uncongeniality. The habitues of this particular half-circle never tolerated (to quote Mac) the mixing of water and oil on their palettes.

Then came Boggs with an Irish journalist by the name of Murphy, a stockily built, round-headed man in gold spectacles; followed by Woods, who brought a friend of his, an inventor; Marny with another friend from the club, and last of all Lonnegan, with his big dog Chief.

Each guest had been welcomed by Mac in his hearty way and duly presented to the stranger, whosoever he might be, and each man had responded according to his type and personality. The banker had returned Mac's grasp with a deference never extended by him, so Pitkin thought, to any financial magnate; the inventor had at once launched out into a description of his more recent experiments; the club man had said the proper thing, and immediately thereafter had busied himself making a mental inventory of the comforts the room afforded, scrutinizing the etchings, the stuffs on the walls, the old bra.s.s--dropping finally into one of the easy chairs by the fire with the same complacency with which he would have dropped into his own at the club; and Woods, Marny, Pitkin, Lonnegan, and the others had all responded in a way to make each guest feel at home--guests and hosts conducting themselves after the manner of humans.

Chief's entrance and greeting were along lines peculiarly his own. He walked in with head erect, his big eyes sweeping the room, stood for an instant surveying the field, and then walked straight to Mac, where he returned his host's welcoming hug by snuggling his big head between his knees. His "manners" made to his host, he visited each guest in turn--those he knew--waited an instant to be petted and talked to, and then stretched himself out at full length on the rug before the fire, where he lay without moving during the entire evening.

"Watch him, Lonny!" burst out Mac--he had followed Chief's every movement since the dog entered the room--"see the way he lies down. Got royal blood in him, old man; goes back to the flood; Noah saw one of his ancestors swimming round and saved him first. I feel as if I were entertaining a Prime Minister."

The atmosphere of the place began to tell on the new company. The banker found himself talking to Boggs in whispers, his respect for his host increasing every moment. That men could plod on as Mac was doing, hampered by a poverty which was only too evident in his surroundings, and still maintain a certain contempt for riches, hidden though it might be under a courtesy which found expression in a big broad fellowship, was a revelation to him. A sort of reverence for the man took possession of him, as if he had fallen upon a supposed tramp whom he had afterward discovered to be either a prophet or some world-known philosopher.

Murphy, the journalist, being poor himself, had other views of life. To him MacWhirter and his intimates were men after his own heart. He and they had followed the same road, although with different aims. They understood each other. As to the rich banker, if the journalist considered him at all it was purely in the line of his own calling--just so much material for future columns of type, whenever he could utilize either his personality or his views.

"No, I don't think American Bohemian life--which is a misnomer," said Murphy in answer to one of the banker's inquiries, "because no such thing exists--is any different from any other such life the world over.

We are a cla.s.s to ourselves, but we in no way differ from our brothers of the brush and quill abroad. I, of course, am only allowed to creep around the outside edges, but even that small privilege affords me more pleasure than any other I possess. Murray Hill and Belgravia may be necessary to our civilization, but neither one nor the other interests the man who has any purpose in life. Take, for instance, these men here," and he pointed to Mac, who was for the moment driving a wooden spigot into the keg of beer. "Look at MacWhirter. He doesn't want any liveried servant to wait on him; he would serve that beer himself if there was a line of flunkies extending from the door to the sidewalk."

"That's what I like him for," cried the banker, jumping up, "and I'm going to help him," and he carried some of the mugs over to Mac's side.

"Here, fill these, Mr. MacWhirter."

"Bully for him!" muttered Pitkin, turning to me as if for confirmation.

"Didn't know it was in him."

"This mug's for you, Mr. MacWhirter," cried out the banker, with an enthusiasm he had not shown since his college days, as he handed the mug to Mac, who drank its contents, his merry eyes fixed on the banker.

"See the monarch picking up the painter's brushes," whispered Boggs to Marny from behind his hand.

And so the evening went on, the mugs being filled and emptied, the piano opened, Woods playing the accompaniment to all the songs the Irishman sang--and he had a dozen of them that no one had ever heard before--the banker and club man joining in the chorus. Then with pipes and mugs in hand the circle about the crackling logs was formed anew--this time twice its regular size to give Chief plenty of room--and the story-telling part of the evening began.

The club man told of a supper he had been to after the theatre in an uptown back room, in which a mysterious man and a veiled lady figured.

Woods supplemented it by an experience of his own, having special reference to a lost lace handkerchief which had been discovered in the outside pocket of one of the male guests, producing uncomfortable consequences. I gave the details of a dinner where I had met a t.i.tled individual who claimed to be a mighty hunter of big game, and about whom the prettiest woman in the room had gone wild, and who turned out later to be somebody's footman.

Murphy, not to be outdone, and recognizing that his turn had come, remarked in a low voice that my story of big game reminded him "of something in his own experience," at which Boggs twisted his head to listen. It was evident to Boggs, and to the other habitues, that if the Irishman talked as well as he sang he would not only be a welcome guest at these "nights" but he might also attain to full membership in the charmed circle. Of one thing everybody was a.s.sured--there was no "water in his oil."

"It's about a fellow countryman of Mr. MacWhirter's, a Scotchman by the name of MacDuff," the Irishman began.

"Me a Scotchman!" cried Mac; "I'm only half Scotch--wish I was a whole one."

"That's because you took to beer and left off drinking whiskey," laughed Murphy. "MacDuff stuck to his national beverage. That's what helped him to keep his end up. All this happened at an English country house."

Here Boggs. .h.i.tched his chair closer so that he might lead the applause if this new departure of his friend as a story-teller failed at first to make the expected hit, and thus needed his encouragement.

"Up in Devonshire," continued Murphy, "a very n.o.ble lord (his ancestors were something in beer, I think) was giving a dinner to Lord Ponsonby, K.C.B., Y.Z., and maybe P.D.Q., for all I know. Ponsonby had just returned from India, where he had distinguished himself in Her Majesty's service; stamped out a mutiny, perhaps, by hanging the natives, or otherwise disporting himself after the manner of his kind.

"Imagine the interior of the dining-room, if you please, gentlemen--the walls panelled in black oak; sideboards to match, covered with George the Third silver and bearing the new coat-of-arms; noiseless servants in knee breeches, except the head butler in funereal black--black as a raven and as awkward; old family portraits on the walls; big windows overlooking the lawn sweeping to the river, with rabbits and pheasants making free until the shooting season opened. At the head of the table sat the n.o.ble lord, presiding with a smile that was an inch deep on his face. On his right sat the distinguished diplomat with a bay window in front of him, resting on the edge of the table, and kept snugly in place by a white waistcoat; red face, burgundy red, with daily washings of champagne to lend some tone to the color; gray side-whiskers with gray standing hair, straight up like a shoe brush; big jowls of cheeks; flabby mouth; two little restless eyes like a terrier's, and a voice like a fog-horn with an attack of croup. When he glanced down the table everybody expected fifty lashes; he had learned that look in India and carried it with him; it was part of his stock in trade.

"Next to Ponsonby sat two dudes from London, high-collared chaps, all shirt front and white tie, hair parted in the middle and slicked down on the sides like a lady's lap-dog. One had six hairs on each side of his upper lip and the other was smooth shaven. Then came a country parson, a fellow in a long-tailed coat, b.u.t.toned up to his chin, with an inch of collar showing above; a mild-mannered, girl-voiced, timid brother, with a face as round as a custard pie and about as expressive. When he was spoken to he rubbed his bleached, bony hands together, bent his shoulders, and answered with a humility that would have done credit to a Franciscan monk begging alms for a convent. He had eaten nothing for two days before the dinner--so nervous had he become over the great honor conferred upon him in being invited--and was so humble when he arrived, and so pale and washed-out looking, that after being presented to the great man his host inquired if he were not ill. Opposite these sat two or three country gentlemen, simple, straightforward men who make up the best of English life. Men of no pretence and men of great simplicity.

These two, of course, were also in evening dress.

"At the end of the table sat MacDuff, a little, red-headed, sawed-off Scotchman, about as high as Mr. Boggs's shoulder, chunkily built, square-chested; clean-shaven face, with bristling eyebrows, searching brown eyes that never winked, a determined jaw, and a mouth that came together like a trunk lid--even all along the lips. He was dressed in a suit of gray cloth, sack coat and all. His ancestors antedated all those on the wall by about two hundred years, and as a modern dress-suit was unknown in their day he selected one of his own. This was a fad of his and one everybody recognized. No dinner was complete without MacDuff.

Very often he never spoke half a dozen words during the entire repast.

He had friends, however, up at the castle, and that made up for all his other shortcomings. A nod of MacDuff's head got many a man his appointment.

"When the port was served, the n.o.ble lord turned to his distinguished guest and said, with a glow on his face that made the candles pale with envy:

"'Gentlemen, I am about to arsk Lord Ponsonby a great favor, and I know that you will add your voice to mine in urging him to comply. Only larst night he delighted a number of us at the club by giving us an account of a most ex_trawd_'nary adventure that befell him in the wilds of India--a most ex_trawd_'nary adventure. I have rarely seen, in all me expa-rience, so profound an impression made upon a group of men. I am now going to arsk our distinguished guest to repeat it.'

"At this Ponsonby waved his hand in a deprecating way, just as he would have done had his retainers offered him the crown--such trifles being beneath his notice. Our host went on:

"'Despite his reluctance, I feel sure that he will yield. May I arsk your Lordship to repeat it to me guests?'