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Show CHAPTER I The agent In the small, dingy station sta-tion at Glendale was, obviously, a little hard of hearing. Jim Fielding repeated the question in tones pitched to command attention. "Can you tell me how to reach the Vaughn place?" he asked, conscious con-scious that the two or three stragglers strag-glers in the waiting - room were listening with interest. The agent lifted melancholy features. fea-tures. "Three miles back country." The agent peered through the narrow grating. "You expected?" "No," Jim answered. "They aren't expecting me." "I was going to say," the agent continued, "there hasn't been anybody any-body from the Vaughn place in here today." He reached toward a telephone tele-phone on the shelf beyond the window. win-dow. "If you should want to call" "No thank you," Jim said hastily, hasti-ly, forestalling complications. 'Well, there's a garage across the street." The agent was determined to be helpful. "They run taxi service." serv-ice." A wink lightened, grotesquely, grotesque-ly, the solemn cast of his features. "Don't let Joe Tanner overcharge you," he said. "He don't read the papers and nobody's told him there's a depression." The stragglers laughed. Jim smiled. The warning, he thought, was an often repeated pleasantry. It was a compliment, too, perhaps, a complimnt not entirely inspired by his own prepossessing appearance. appear-ance. His destination, he surmised, had something to do with the matter. mat-ter. The agent was disposed to be affable to a prospective guest at "Meadowbrook." If he knew the facts of the situation! ; Jim's smile deepened. He thanked the agent again and walked out of the waiting room. The smile faded as the (glare of early afternoon struck him full in the eyes. Three miles back country! Jim stood irresolutely on the' narrow plank platform. The prospect was not encouraging. He glanced across the street where, in a forest of gas pumps, stood a sedan placarded TAXI. But the garage would charge him a dollar at least. He couldn't afford that extravagance. A fool idea anyway! Jim leaned dispiritedly against a post in the shade of the jutting roof. Why had he thought that to find the Mac-Phersons Mac-Phersons would help him spiritually or materially? There was an. sn. swer to that. The MacPhersons were all that remained of the deb-onaire deb-onaire world of his early youth which had vanished so completely. He was fed-up with his present existence, sick of trying to find a job, of sponging on his brother-in-law, of making himself agreeable to pay for his bed and board. The week-end just past had been the proverbial last straw. He'd thought that to find the MacPhersons might restore, in a measure, his confidence confi-dence and self-esteem, might help him, somehow, to carry out one or another of the drastic decisions he had made in the Calenders' guestroom guest-room last night. It wouldn't of course. A damn-fool damn-fool idea! Jim's eyes glowered out into dusty heat from under the brim of his hat. He was as he was and nothing could alter the facts of the situation. There was jo place for him m this new world of post-panic uncertainties. He was one of the lost generation, the boys who had left college in 1929. There were no jobs. The contacts he'd made led exactly nowhere. So what? He was too mercurial, too impulsive, impul-sive, too what was .he quality? Well, too romantic, perhaps. Kay, his sister, was a hard-headed materialist. ma-terialist. She'd stood by him like a soldier. But she had no patience with the vagrant impulses which led him, from time to time, in varying directions. Kay set her course and steered by it with no deviations. She lacked imagination. What of it? She'd done very well for herself. Kay was right, of course. A grim smile touched Jim's lips. Impulses were luxuries. He hadn't thought of them in that light in the halcyon days before the panic. Then impulses im-pulses had been the cocktails of life ani had led to charming adventures. adven-tures. Or if following an inclination resulted unfortunately, there had been any number of people to rescue res-cue him from difficulties, his uncle's un-cle's lawyer. Aunt Emily, one of his legion of friends. All that had changed. Impulses were costly risks in the new order of existence. There was the impulse which had brought him here in search of the MacPhersons. Mac-Phersons. To Jim they were mo.-e than that The gardener's cottage at "Whitehall" "White-hall" had been, in his boyhood, j more friendly and exciting than the I great formal house set in acres of velvet lawn. The memory of Mrs. MacPherson's spice cake gave him a feeling of nostalgia. There was a sort of preserve she used to make, plum and orange together, spread thickly on freshly baked bread. An atmosphere of comfort and tart good humor had been her natural environment. She'd had the sharpest sharp-est tongue and the kindest heart in the world. MacPherson had taught him to play an excellent game of chess. He'd told rousing good stories, too, and let him putter around the gardens gar-dens with a wheelbarrow and a spade. As he grew older, how often MacPherson had helped him out of scrapes and, outwitting his Presbyterian Presby-terian conscience, had whitewashed the accusing evidence of some youthful folly. The lectures the lean sandy Scot had delivered privately! Jim winced at recurring memories. If he'd been spoiled, it wasn't the fault of the MacPhersons They'd been fond of him and proud of him. He had parted from them with sincere emotion when the crash came, when Uncle James and Aunt Emily had gone to California and a mortgage company had taken over "Whitehall." He'd promised to look them up. He hadn't, of course. Not that he had forgotten them. He'd been occupied with the business of trying to find a job, with singing for his supper, with rediscovering Lenore. The MacPhersons had meant to retire. He'd been surprised and a little disturbed when, through his uncle's lawyer, he had learned that they were employed by people named Vaughn T. H. Vaughn, "Meadowbrook," Glendale. A card from Mrs. MacPherson last Christmas Christ-mas had confirmed the information. "Dear Jamie," she had written under un-der a lavish sprinkli-.g of holly sprigs and tinsel, "Andy and I are wishing you'd come to see us." Jamie! No one except the MacPhersons MacPher-sons called him that. ; The name woke sleeping memories. If he could be "Jamie" again Sentimental idiot! The half-smile touching Jim's lips widened into a derisive grin. It was only that-Well, that-Well, the week-end had been humiliating. hu-miliating. He'd been hurt and he was running to the MacPhersons for sympathy and comfort. A damn-fool damn-fool idea! He was ashamed of himself. him-self. To find them would be, at best, only a temporary anesthetic, scarcely worth the pains of walking three dusty miles. He was through with misleading impulses. No more romantic whims. He would take the first train back to town, pick up his bags at the club and go on to New York. Perhaps, if he made close connections, he would reach Roselyn in time for Kay's party. At any rate, at the first opportune moment, he would ask Lenore to marry him. Jim lit a cigarette. Mental perplexities per-plexities lulled for the moment. He was conscious of physical discomfort. discom-fort. Hungry, that was it. He'd had nothing to eat since breakfast. There must be a restaurant, somewhere some-where in the village. He calculated the depressing state of his finances. Worse than he had anticipated. He'd had no business to play red-dog with the Callenders last night. Such dissipation was for the opulent. Well, he could manage a milk-shake, at least, and a drug-store sandwich or two. The time-table gave him half an hour for refreshments. Jim left the station and strode off along the main street of the village. Not much of a town, he thought, chain-stores, a fish-market, an expensive looking grocery, a small brick bank with a Colonial facade. The village, Jim surmised, served as a base of supplies for the outlying outly-ing estates. A post office painted olive green, a tailor shop, a bakery. The latest movies, anyway. The drug-store occupied a prominent promi-nent corner location. Ji:n entered, grateful at once for the dim light after the glare of the street. The soda - fountain looked pleasantly cooL He seated himself and removed re-moved his hat. Food and something cold to drink Lord, he was hungry! A head appeared at the level with the counter, a head foaming with yellow curls bound by a band of narrow ribbon. It hovered there for a moment and Jim heard from the obscure region behina the fountain a vexed exclamation. Presently a face appeared and then the slight rounded figure of a girl in a tea room uniform of crisp yellow and blue. She had flax-blue eyes and a tilte ". nose and she looked across the counter with so cross an expression expres-sion that Jim was amused. "Hello," he said and smiled. Jim's smile was very engaging. The girl behind the counter responded re-sponded to it at once. Her lips curved in a friendly grin: "Hello," she said. "Sorry to keep you waiting." "That's all right. What were you doing, saying your prayers?" "Chasing lemons and oranges." Her apron, he saw, was filled with them. She began to arrange the fruit in a pyramid on the counter. "The darn things topple over a dozen times a day." She breathed a sigh of exasperation. "But we must be decorated. The boss has fancy ideas." Jim felt his depression lifting. The girl behind the fountain topped the pyramid with a bright "Sorry to Keep You Waiting." green lime, smoothed her apron and turned to Jim. "What will you have?" she asked. "A chocolate milk and a sandwich." sand-wich." "Ham? Cheese? Or?" "Both," he answered promptly. "Hungry?" "Starving." She smiled. "Okay. In a jiffy." She busied herself behind the counter. Jim watched her deft manipulation ma-nipulation of a knife with a razor-edge razor-edge blade. Cute, he thought, friendly, friend-ly, amusing. Her curls were synthetically syn-thetically blonde, of course. No hair, he was sure, in its natural state, was quite so glintingly golden. gold-en. Her lashes were stiff with mascara mas-cara and her mouth was a work of art sketched in raspberry lip-salve of an especially virulent shade. Apparently unaware of his scrutiny, scruti-ny, she glanced at him, a knife poised over open jars. Her eyes narrowed and crinkled. "As one blonde to another," she asked, "mustard or mayonnaise?" Jim laughed: It was, he reflected, the first natural laugh he'd enjoyed since last Friday at noon. The atmosphere at-mosphere at the Callenders had been strained. He'd spent the weekend week-end smiling stiffly at Myra's acid pleasantries, making loud noises of appreciation, far beyond their merit, mer-it, in response to Dick's tepid jokes. Singing for his supper . . "Well ?" "I'm sorry," Jim apologized. "Mustard or mayonnaise? That's an important decision, isn't it? I'll compromise. A little of both if you please." His reply seemed to amuse her. She returned to her task humming, just audibly, a gay familiar tune. Funny kid, Jim thought. Kid? Well, eighteen or nineteen, perhaps. What was her name? Gladys? Gertrude? Geraldine? Not that it mattered. Nothing mattered especially. He'd give his right arm to be interested in something again. Anything a girl, a job, a dog-fight. Life without vital interests wasn't much fun. One might as well be a turnip There must be something that he could do. He was confident, in spite of repeated discouragements, of his ability to get on in the world. He had had an expensive education and a fair amount of intelligence. He made friends easily. People usually liked him. He was healthy enough. He'd been voted, during his last year at college, the member of his class most likely to succeed. That was a laugh! "Hell!" he muttered half aloud. The girl placing a platter before him, glanced up. "Everything all right?" "I beg your pardon Oh, fine!" Jim assured her. He contemplated the platter. "The sandwiches are beautiful. That's a tasty arrangement arrange-ment of pickles and hard-boiled egg." "I thought " she hesitated. "You looked sort of sunk." "I'm an actor," Jim said. "Doing "Do-ing 'Hamlet.' That was a private rehearsal." "Honest?" Her eyes opened wide, then narrowed and crinkled. "It's Mr. Barrymore!" she exclaimed. "Fancy my embarrassment! Can you forgive me? I'm a little nearsighted near-sighted without my opera-glasses." Jim laughed, a deep pleasant laugh of genuine amusement. Surprisingly, Sur-prisingly, he felt almost cheerful. He applied himself to the sandwiches. sand-wiches. "Anything else?" Jim glanced up from the remaining remain-ing segments of sandwich. She had made things tidy behind the counter coun-ter and seemed about to disappear. The idea was depressing. To detain de-tain her, he asked, though he had, at present, no practical use for the information, "Can you tell me how to reach the Vaughn place?' T. H. Vaughn, 'Meadowbrook'?" The question caught and held her attention. It was obvious, at once, that she, too, was impressed by the name. The girl behind the fountain supplied sup-plied detailed instructions. "South Valley road," she said, her interest in Jim deepening percepti-bly. percepti-bly. -"Turn left here at the corner and again at the cross-road just past the first stretch of woods. You can't miss the place. It's a white house on a hill. Sort of old-fashioned but pretty," she conceded. "There's a brook through the meadow." "I assumed there would be aj brook," Jim said, "and one mead ow, at least." "Oh sure! That was silly, wasn't it?" She had apparently abandoned any idea of disappearing. The Vaughn estate seemed to be an absorbing topic of conversation. She perched on a stool behind the fountain foun-tain and regarded Jim attentively, her eyes glinting with secret amuse ment. "You're a friend of Cecily's, I suppose." Jim was unable to make an intelligent in-telligent reply. Who the devil was Cecily? He had let himself in for explanations. ex-planations. Why had he asked the question? The girl, however expected no reply. re-ply. That he and "Cecily" were friends was an established fact, Jim decided, so far as she was concerned. con-cerned. "I know somebody who won't set off fire - works because you've come," she added with an air of lively enjoyment. "Do you?" Jim asked, slightly startled. "That's not a peasant prospect." "You needn't worry," she said encouragingly. "You can handle him." Jim felt that she was measuring meas-uring the ample breadth of his shoulders, appraising, with admiration admira-tion which she made no attempt to conceal, his six feet and an odd inch or so of flexible muscles and lean hard flesh. What in blazes? Who was "him"? A potential rival, perhaps. per-haps. Jim was intrigued. "Are you sure?" he asked smil ing. (TO BE CONTINUED) |