I'm expecting that he'll now invent a lie about himself or Britt or somebody else to make that girl either sorry enough or mad enough to carry out what gossip is predicting."

Xoa had seated herself at the small table and was vigorously rattling the dice in one of the boxes by way of a hint to the laggard menfolks.

"Women have a soft side, and men come up on that side and take advantage--and Joe Harnden's mealy mouth has always served him well with his womenfolks--but I do hope Vona Harnden has got done being fool enough to galley-slave and sacrifice for the rest of her life,"

sputtered the dame. "Britt for her? Fs-s-sh!" Her hiss of disgust was prolonged. Then she rattled the dice more vigorously.

"It's a mighty good imitation of a--diamond-backed rattler, mother! But come on over to the table, son! She isn't as dangerous as she sounds!"

The Squire dragged along his chair.

Vaniman leaped from his seat with a suddenness that was startling in that interior where peace prevailed and composure marked all acts. For the first time in his stay in the Hexter home his mood fought with the serenity of the place. The prospect of that bland contest with disks and dice was hateful, all of a sudden. His rioting feelings needed room--air--somehow there seemed to be something outside that he ought to attend to.

"Dear folks, let me off for to-night," he pleaded. "It's been a hard day for me--in the bank--I'm nervous--I think a walk will do me good."

He rushed into the hallway without waiting for any reply. He put on his cap and finished pulling on his overcoat when he was outside the house.

His first impulse was to stride away from the village--go out along the country road to avoid the men who scowled at him as Britt's right-hand servitor.

But he noted that some kind of tumult seemed to be going on in the village--and any kind of tumult fitted the state of his emotions right then. He hurried toward the tavern.

Up and down the street men were marching, to and fro before Usial's shop. Vaniman saw tossing torches and the light revealed that some of the marchers wore oilcloth capes, evidently relics of some past and gone political campaign when parades were popular.

There was music, of a sort. A trombone blatted--there was the staccato tuck of a snare drum, and the boom of a ba.s.s drum came in with isochronal beats.

Vaniman went to the tavern porch and stood there with other onlookers.

"Give Ike Jones half a chance with that old tramboon of his and he ain't no slouch as a musicianer," remarked Landlord Files to the young man. "I hope Egypt is waking up to stay so."

"If we keep on, the town will get to be lively enough to suit even a city chap like you are," said another citizen. "Hope you're going to stay with us!" But there was no cordiality in that implied invitation; that there was malice which hoped to start something was promptly revealed. "In spite of what is reported about Tasp Britt firing you out of your job!" sneered the man.

The morrow held no promise for Vaniman, no matter what the Squire had said in the way of rea.s.surance. To stay with Britt in that bank would be intolerable punishment. He decided that he might as well talk back to Egypt as Egypt deserved to be talked to, considering what line of contumely had been pa.s.sed in through that bank wicket. He was obliged to speak loudly in order to be heard over the trombone and the drums.

Therefore, everybody in the crowd got what he said; he was young, deeply stirred, and he had held back his feelings for a long time. "I'm going to leave this G.o.d-forsaken, cat-fight dump just as soon as I can make my arrangements to get away. Good night!"

He was ashamed of himself the moment that speech was out of his mouth.

He was so much ashamed that he immediately became afraid he would be moved to apologize; and he was also ashamed to apologize. He was, therefore, suffering from a peculiar mixture of emotions, and realized that fact, and hurried off before his tongue could get him into any worse sc.r.a.pe.

He suddenly felt an impulse to get back to sanity by a talk with Vona.

He had never called at her home. He knew his Egypt all too well--short as his stay had been! A call on a young woman by a young man was always construed by gossip as a process of courtship--and until that day Frank had been keeping his feelings hidden even from Vona herself.

But, having definitely decided to leave the town, he was in a mood to put aside considerations of caution in regard to their mutual affairs, for one evening, at any rate. He was moved also by the reflection that her father was at home--and the Squire and Xoa had dropped broad hints as to that gentleman's methods of operation with his womenkind. Vaniman possessed youth's confidence in his ability to make good in the world.

He wondered if it would not be well to have a general show-down in the Harnden family, in order that when he went away from Egypt he might go with the consolation of knowing that Vona was waiting for him, her love sanctioned.

Pondering, he arrived in front of Egypt's humble town hall. Young folks were coming out of the door. He remembered then! For some weeks they had been rehearsing a drama to be presented on the eve of Washington's Birthday, and Vona had the leading role; she had employed him at slack times in the bank to hold the script and prompt her in her lines.

He saw her and stopped, and she hastened to him. "I suppose a political parade on Broadway wouldn't break up a rehearsal, Frank. But that's what has happened in this case. Not one of us could keep our minds on what we were saying."

"I'm not surprised. Any noise of an evening in this place, except an owl hooting, is a cause for hysterics."

She walked on at his side. "You're disgusted with our poor old town,"

she said, plaintively.

"I'm going to leave. Do you blame me?"

"I've heard about the--whatever it was!"

"That's right! Leave it unnamed--whatever it was!"

She touched his arm timidly. "Please be kind--to me--no matter how much cause you have to dislike others here."

He stopped, put his arms about her, and drew her into a close embrace.

There were shadows of buildings where they stood; no one was near.

"I can't do my best here, Vona. You understand it. But I can't go away and do the best that's in me unless I go with your pledge to me."

"You have it, Frank! The pledge of all my love."

"But your folks! They tell me your father is at home."

"I have said nothing to father and mother--naturally." She smiled up at him. "I have never had any occasion to say anything to them about my loving anybody, because that matter has never come up till now."

"I am going home with you," he said, grimly, and drew her along, his arm linked in hers.

"If you think it is advisable for me to talk with father and mother, I'll do it--I'll do it to-night," she volunteered, courageously.

"Vona, I never want to feel again as I did this afternoon when I allowed you to go alone on an errand that concerned us both. After this, I'm going to stand up, man fashion, and do the talking for the two of us."

CHAPTER VIII

TWO AGAINST THE FIELD

Mr. Harnden had not had a bit of trouble late that afternoon in securing a promise from Tasper Britt to give him audience and view the plans and specifications of Mr. Harnden's latest invention. In fact, the consent had been secured so easily that Mr. Harnden, freshly arrived in town on Ike Jones's stage, and having heard no Egypt gossip during a prolonged absence from home, had blinked at Britt with the air of a man who had expected to find a door held against him, had pushed hard, and had tumbled head over heels when nothing opposed him.

Mr. Harnden went out on the street and put himself in the way of hearing some gossip. Then he went directly back into Britt's office and shook hands with the money king, giving Mr. Britt an arch look which suggested that Mr. Harnden knew a whole lot that he was not going to talk about right then. He said, ascribing the idea to second thought, that it might be cozier and handier to view the plans at the Harnden home. Mr. Britt agreed with a heartiness that clinched the hopes which gossip had given Mr. Harnden. The father causally said he supposed, of course, that Vona had gone home long before from the bank, and he watched Mr. Britt's expression when the banker replied to a question as to how she was getting on with her work.

"Yes, siree, she's a smart girl," corroborated the father, "and I have always impressed on her mind that some day she was bound to rise high and get what she deserves to have. Come early, Tasper, and we'll make a pleasant evening of it."

Mr. Britt went early, but not early enough to catch Vona before she left for the rehearsal.

Although it had been particularly easy to get Mr. Britt to come to the house, Mr. Harnden was not finding it easy to hold his prospective backer's attention. The patent project under consideration was what the inventor called "a duplex door," designed to keep kitchen odors from dining rooms. Mr. Harnden had a model of the apparatus. With his forefinger he kept tripping the doors, showing how a person's weight operated the contrivance, shutting the doors behind and simultaneously opening the doors in front; but Mr. Harnden did not draw attention to the palpable fact that a waiter would need to have the agility of a flea to escape being swatted in the rear or banged in the face.

Mr. Britt watched the model's operations with lackl.u.s.ter eyes; he seemed to be looking through the little doors and at something else that was not visible to the inventor.

Mr. Harnden was short and roly-poly, with a little round mouth and big round eyes, and a curlicue of topknot that he wagged in emphasis as a unicorn might brandish his horn. Mr. Harnden considered that he was a good talker. He was considerably piqued by Britt's apparent failure to get interested, although the banker was making considerable of an effort to return suitable replies when the inventor pinned him to answers.

"Suppose I go over the whole plan again, from the start," suggested Harnden.

"Joe, Mr. Britt looks real tired," protested Mrs. Harnden from the chimney corner. Her querulous tone fitted her lackadaisical looks; her house dress had too many flounces on it; she had a paper-covered novel in her hand.

"Yes, I _am_ tired," declared Britt, mournfully. "Sort of worn out and all discouraged. I feel terribly alone in this world."