CHAPTER XXIII.

CHESTER ARLINGTON’S MOTHER.

Mrs. Arlington looked up as they approached, and at sight of her son a faint smile passed over her face. From her faded eyes the old fire had died, to be rekindled no more. There was no longer rouge upon cheeks or lips, and the hands which had once been loaded with jewels were now undecorated, save by a single heavy ring of gold, her wedding ring. Her dress was plain and modest, almost somber.

“Mother,” said Chester tenderly, “this is Dick Merriwell. You remember, don’t you, that we were speaking of him last evening?”

“Dick--Dick Merriwell?” she murmured. “Were we speaking of him, Chester? I’m so very forgetful. It’s annoying to be so extremely forgetful.”

“Yes, mother, I told you that he was my dearest friend--the fellow I esteem above all others.”

She held out her hand, which Dick promptly took, bowing low, his head bared.

“You will excuse me, Mr. Merriwell,” she said. “I would rise to greet my son’s dearest friend, but I’m not very strong.”

“I wouldn’t have you rise for the world, Mrs. Arlington,” said Dick, his voice a trifle unsteady in spite of himself, a slight mist creeping into his eyes. “I am very glad indeed to meet Chester Arlington’s mother. It is a pleasure and a privilege.”

“Thank you,” she returned, looking at him earnestly. “You have a fine face, and you are a thoroughbred gentleman. My boy has to mingle with very rough characters, you know--his business demands it. His business is--it is---- Chester, what is your business?”

“Mining, mother.”

“Oh, yes. Isn’t it strange I can’t remember such things? My daughter is here with me. Have you ever met my daughter, Mr. Merriwell?”

Had he ever met June Arlington! It seemed impossible that her mind could be blank to all recollection of the past, in which she had so intensely opposed the friendship between June and Dick.

“I have met her, Mrs. Arlington.”

“You seem to have forgotten, mother,” said Chester, “that June and Dick are quite well acquainted. They met for the first time several years ago at Fardale.”

“Fardale--that’s the place where you attended school, I think you told me. It was your father’s choice to send you there, was it not? Seems to me I opposed it; and that, I presume, was the reason why I never cared to visit you at Fardale.”

She had spent months at Fardale!

Unobserved by Mrs. Arlington, Chester and Dick exchanged glances. Although Chet was smiling, Dick knew that deep down in his heart there was hidden a great sorrow for the affliction of his mother.

“My daughter is a very charming young lady,” Mrs. Arlington continued. “In a way, I am quite as proud of her as I am of my fine, manly boy. Few mothers are blessed with such children.”

“Few indeed,” agreed Dick, accepting the chair which Chester had placed beside that of Mrs. Arlington. “I quite agree with you, madam.”

“You see, mother,” laughed Chester, “Merriwell is something of a flatterer.”

“I am sure it is not flattery. I see nothing but sincerity in his face and eyes. Is he interested in your business affairs, my son?”

“Oh, no, indeed. He is still a student at college. He’s the pride of old Yale, the college I would have attended had circumstances permitted.”

A slight frown of perplexity settled upon her forehead.

“I can’t understand how circumstances could have prevented you from attending any school you wished to attend, my son. Am I not right in thinking that your father was in a situation to give you the advantage of a course at any college in the country?”

He evaded the question.

“At the time when I was contemplating entering Yale,” he said, “I saw a business opportunity that fascinated me.”

“I shall never cease to regret that you chose to let business interfere with your education, Chester. You might have attended college, and been assured that your father would have set you up in any business or profession you chose to follow.”

There was not the slightest recollection of the fact that appalling reverses had stripped D. Roscoe Arlington of wealth and power and made it necessary for him to husband the few resources left him, in order to provide for himself and his wife in their old age.

More than once Chester had wondered at the strength of the man who, in face of such calamities, had found it possible to hold up his head and resist the temptation to put a bullet through his brain. It is almost invariably the brave man who survives crushing adversity; it is the coward who commits suicide.

“Father was not very well, you know,” Chester went on. “Besides, it is often the worthless chap who depends upon his pater to start him out in life.”

“You are very independent, my son. I presume it’s a spirit to be proud of. I can’t quite understand why your father didn’t come out here with us.”

“He didn’t wish to take the long railroad journey, mother. We’re going back in a few days. A letter from the physician tells me that father is not at all well.”

“Then we should return at once. If he is ill, my place is at his side. You must stay with us, Chester.”

“I am going back with you, but I can’t stay there long unless it is absolutely necessary. A man of business,” he added, “makes a serious blunder when he neglects his affairs. In these hustling times, a fellow has to keep on the jump to gather in the shekels.”

“Oh, but there’s something better than mere money. Whoever gives himself wholly to the accumulation of wealth loses half his life.”

The change in her was marvelous, for once her only thought had seemed to be of wealth and power and social prestige. A country girl, risen from the humblest station in life, she had slavishly worshiped false gods. After all, was it not a blessing of kind Providence that the page of the past had been turned down and sealed for her? There was no recollection of the years she had spent in a private sanitarium, separated from husband and children--and that was well.

They sat there talking for some time. Other guests of the hotel came forth in summer garments and scattered themselves in chairs along the veranda to get the cool breath which now came creeping down from the snow-capped Rockies. Parties of sight seers were returning from Manitou, the Garden, the Cañon, Monument Park, and other near-by places of interest. Nearly all the guests of that big hotel were tourists from the East.

Presently a large touring car containing four young men rolled up to the steps and stopped. Brad Buckhart was at the wheel. His companions were Tucker, Bigelow, and Gregory McGregor.

At sight of them Dick rose and excused himself, bidding Mrs. Arlington adieu.

Chester proposed to take his mother to her room, but she declined, saying that she preferred to sit there a while longer.

“Go with your friend, my boy,” she urged. “I am all right. Don’t worry about me. Such a friend as that young man is worth cleaving to.”

“You’ve sized him up right at last, mother.”

“At last?” she breathed. “Why, I’ve never had the opportunity before. I could only judge of him from what you told me about him.”

“Oh, of course--certainly,” said Chester hastily. “I’ll return directly, mother.”

Buckhart had turned the car over to a man from the garage, who took it away.

Tucker threw himself into a chair on the veranda.

“There,” he said, “we’ve done up this old town brown. We’ve taken a peek from the top of Pike’s Peak, we’ve gaped at the wonders in the Garden of the Gods, we’ve seen a man or two down at Manitou--likewise two or three girls. There isn’t anything more to be done, and I’m ready to weep. Bigelow, lend me your handkerchief.”

“Not on your life,” said Bouncer. “I’m sick of paying laundry bills for you. I’ve been lending you handkerchiefs and socks and pajamas until the laundry man has got the most of my wealth.”

“Now, wouldn’t I look well rattling around in a suit of your pajamas!” scoffed Tommy. “Big, you’re a heartless, unfeeling creature, and I repudiate you as a friend. In order to get up some excitement to kill the monotony, I’ll have to kill you.”

“There’s a little excitement in the air,” said Dick. Then he told them of the arrangements for the baseball game.

“Wow! wow!” barked Tucker delightedly. “You’ve saved my life, Richard. You’ve preserved me from a possibly fatal attack of ennui. Will we play the Outlaws? Oh, say, watch us!”

“But can you get together a team, pard?” asked Buckhart.

“I’ve figured it all out. We will have nine men, including Bigelow.”

“What?” cried Tommy, jumping up. “Are you going to let Big play? That settles it. It’s all off as far as I’m concerned.”

“What do you mean?”

“I quit. I throw up both hands. Bigelow play baseball! Say, Dick, you’re a subject for the dotty house.”

“Oh, come now,” protested the fat fellow. “I don’t pretend to be a crack at baseball, but if you’ve got to have me, I’ll do my best. One thing I’m proud of, I never was dropped from the Yale varsity.”

“A stab at me,” snapped Tucker; “a most unkind thrust. But, look here, it’s a well-known fact that I got too fast for the varsity.”

“Oh, yes,” agreed Bouncer, “you got too fast all right. You certainly hit a fast pace, and it’s a wonder you didn’t get too fast for the college. All your friends expected you would be invited to chase yourself.”

“Of course,” said Dick, “if we can find a crackajack ninth man, Big will be willing to sit on the bench and look handsome. You see, we’ll give the impression that he’s a marvelous pinch hitter, and his size ought to awe the Outlaws.”

“I’m a martyr,” said Bigelow. “For the sake of any good cause I am ready to be benched. In fact, I’d really enjoy playing the game on the bench, for then I wouldn’t have to exert myself and get all damp with perspiration and rumple my beautiful hair and scatter a lot of cuticule around the diamond sliding to bases. I love baseball, but oh, you cuticule!”

“You’re sure a generous, self-sacrificing soul, Bouncer,” grinned Buckhart.

Dick told of his encounter with Buzzsaw Stover.

“I opine,” observed Brad, “that Mr. Stover thought something worse than a buzz saw had struck him.”

As they were chatting in this manner two horsemen came riding along the street. One of them, the younger, was dressed in corduroy and woollens. He sat his horse beautifully. The other, however, was the most picturesque figure of the two: for both were Indians, and the older man, bent and bowed, wore, despite the warmth of the unclouded sun, a dirty old red blanket draped about his shoulders.

Tucker saw them first, and, uttering a yell, he grabbed Dick’s shoulder.

“Look,” he cried, pointing; “look there, Richard! What do you see?”

“So help me marvels,” exclaimed Dick, astounded, “it’s old Joe Crowfoot and young Joe!”