Part 2

The hotel was several miles from the village. Its gables and chimneys could be seen rising in majestic aloofness from the woods on a distant hillside. The Watermelon paused where the road dipped down again into the valley and ran his eye over the intervening landscape. By the road, it would be at least five miles; through the woods, the distance dwindled to about three. The Watermelon took to the woods. They became thicker at every step, the quiet and shade deeper and deeper. A bird's call echoed clear and sweet as though among the pillars of some huge grotto. A brook laughed between its mossy banks, tumbling into foamy little waterfalls over every boulder that got in its path. The Watermelon determined to follow the brook, sure that in the end it would lead him to the hotel. City people had a failing for brooks and no hotel management would miss the chance of having one gurgling by, close at hand. The brook grew wider and wider, and through a break in the trees the Watermelon saw a lake, disappearing in the leafy distance. He heard a splash and saw the shiny white body of a man rise for one joyful moment from the green depths ahead and then dive from sight with another cool splash.

The Watermelon decided from habit to get a better view of the lonely swimmer before he let his own presence become known. He slipped into the bushes and slowly wriggled his way to the little glade. The lake was bigger than at first appeared. It turned and twisted through the woods and was finally lost from view around a small promontory. The trees grew nearly to the water's edge, a dense protecting wall to one who wished to sport in nature's solitude, garbed in nature's simple clothing. The lake was too far from the hotel to have been annexed as one of the attractions of that hostelry. All this the Watermelon noticed at a glance. He also noticed that the man swimming in the cool brown depths, with long easy strokes, was alone and a stranger. The Watermelon looked for the clothes and found them on a log, practically at his feet.

In everything but color, they fulfilled his dream of what raiment should be like. Instead of the pale gray he rather favored, the suit was brown, a light brown, with a tiny green stripe, barely visible, intertwined with a faint suggestion of red, forming a harmonious whole that was vastly pleasing to the Watermelon's aesthetic senses. In the matter of socks, he realized that the stranger had not taken the best advantage of his opportunity. Instead of being red or green to lend character to the delicate suggestion of those colors found in the suit, they were a soft dun brown. There was a tie of the same shade and a silk negligee shirt of white with pale green stripes. The owner was clearly a young man of rare taste, unhampered by a vexatious limitation of his pocket-book.

He could be seen swimming slowly and luxuriously in the little lake, perfectly contented, unconscious that some one besides the woodpeckers and the squirrels was watching him. The swimmer's strokes had quickened and the Watermelon perceived that he was swimming straight up the lake with the probable intention of rounding the promontory and exploring the farther lake. When he disappeared, the Watermelon quickly, carefully, gathered up the clothes and likewise disappeared.

The swimmer was a big man and the clothes as good a fit as one could look for under the circumstances. They set off the Watermelon's long, lean figure to perfection, and the hat, a soft and expensive panama, lent added distinction. The Watermelon removed the three dollars and ten cents and the keys from his own pockets, and making a bundle of his cast-off dollies, stuffed them out of sight in a hollow log, where later he could return and find them. It was just as well to leave the stranger a practical captive in nature's depths until the beauty show was pulled off. After that event, he would return, and if the stranger was amenable to reason, he could have his good clothes back, but if he acted put out at all, for punishment he would have to accept the Watermelon's glorious attire.

Clean-shaven, well-clothed, there was no longer any need for him to go to the hotel, unless he wished to dine there. If the devotee of nature, back in the swimming pool, was a stranger in these parts and not a guest at the hotel, the Watermelon felt that he could do this with pleasure and safety. It was after twelve, and his ever-present desire to eat was becoming too pronounced to be comfortable. It would be a fitting climax to a highly delightful morning to have dinner, surrounded by gentle folk again, for the Watermelon came of a gentle family. He had no fear, for some time at least, of the owner of the borrowed clothes making himself unnecessarily conspicuous. But, on the other hand, if he were a guest at the hotel, the clothes would probably be recognized and murder be the simplest solution of their change of owners. Still, reasoned the Watermelon, with a shrewd guess at the truth, if he were a guest, it was hardly likely that he would be swimming alone in the isolated pond, in the bathing suit designed by nature. The clothes hardly indicated a young man of a serious turn of mind, who would seek the wooded solitudes in preference to the vivacious society of his kind to be found in a big hotel.

The wood ended abruptly at a stone wall. There was a road beyond the wall, and beyond the road, another stone wall and more woods. It was a narrow woodland road, a short cut to the hotel. It wound its way out of sight, up a hill, through the pines. It was grass-grown and shady and the trees met overhead. Sweetbrier and wild roses grew along the stone walls, while gay little flowers and delicate ferns ventured out into the road itself, and with every passing breeze nodded merrily from the ruts of last winter's wood hauling. By the side of the road, like a glaring anachronism, a variety theater in Paradise, a vacuum cleaner among the ferns and daisies, stood a huge red touring car with shining brass work and raised top. No one was anywhere in sight and the Watermelon climbed into the tonneau and leaned comfortably back in the roomy depths.

"Home, Henry," said he languidly to an imaginary chauffeur.

A honk, honk behind him answered. He leaned from the car and saw another turn into the road and come toward him. It was a touring car, big and blue. An elderly gentleman, fat, serious, important, was at the wheel. Beside him sat a lady, and a chauffeur languished in the tonneau.

"Hello, Thomas," called the old gentleman with the affability of a performing elephant, addressing the Watermelon by the name of his car, as is the custom of the road.

"Hello, William," answered the Watermelon, wondering why they called him Thomas.

The old gentleman flushed angrily and the lady laughed, a delightful laugh of girlish amusement. The Watermelon smiled.

"We are a Packard," explained the old gentleman stiffly.

"Are you?" said the Watermelon, wholly unimpressed by the information. "Well, I ain't a Thomas."

"I called you by the name of your car," said the old gentleman. "I surmise that you have not had one long."

"I don't feel as if I owned it now," the Watermelon admitted.

The old gentleman smiled genially. Anything was pardonable but flippancy in response to his own utterances, none of which was ever lacking in weight or importance. The young man, it seemed, was only ignorant.

"Are you in trouble?" he asked with a gleam of anticipated pleasure in his eyes. To tinker with a machine and accomplish nothing but a crying need for an immediate bath was his dearest recreation.

"No," said the Watermelon, thinking of the three, ten, in the pocket of the new clothes and of the lonely swimmer. "I ain't--yet."

The old gentleman was vaguely disappointed. "Can you run your machine?" he asked, hopeful of a reply in the negative.

"No," said the Watermelon.

"Won't go, eh?" The old gentleman turned off the power in his car and stepped forth, agilely, joyfully, prepared to do irreparable damage to the stranger's car. He drew off his gloves and slipped them into his pocket, then for a moment he hesitated.

"Where is your chauffeur?"

"I haven't one," said the Watermelon.

The old gentleman disapproved. "Until you know more about your machine, you should have one," said he oratorically. "I am practically an expert, and yet I always take mine with me."

He waved aside any comment on his own meritorious conduct and foresight and turned to the machine. "There is probably something the matter with the carburetor," said he, and raised the hood.

"Probably," admitted the Watermelon, alighting and peering into the engine beside the old gentleman.

"Father," suggested the lady gently, "maybe you had better let Alphonse--"

Alphonse, sure of the reply, made no move to alight and assist.

The old gentleman, with head nearly out of sight, peering here and there, tapping this and sounding that, replied with evident annoyance. "Certainly not, Henrietta. I am perfectly capable--"

His words trailed off into vague mutterings.

The Watermelon glanced at the lady, girl or woman, he was not sure which. Between thirty and thirty-five, the unconquerable youth of the modern age radiated from every fold of her dainty frock, from the big hat and graceful veil. Her hair was soft and brown and thick, her mouth was rather large, thin-lipped and humorous, and yet pathetic, the mouth of one who laughs through tears, seeing the piteous, so closely intermingled with the amusing. Her eyes were brown, clever, with delicate brows and a high smooth forehead. The Watermelon decided that she was not pretty, but distinctly classy. She was watching him with amused approval, oddly mingled with wistfulness, for the Watermelon was young and tall and graceful, good-looking and boyish. His man's mouth and square chin were overtopped by his laughing woman's eyes, soft and gentle and dreaming, a face that fascinated men as well as women. And he was young and she was--thirty-five. He smiled at the friendliness he saw in her eyes and turned to the old gentleman, who was now thoroughly absorbed.

"I need a monkey-wrench," said he. "I thought at first that there was something the matter with the carburetor, but think now that it must be in the crank shaft assembly."

"Oh, yes," agreed the Watermelon vaguely, and got the wrench from the tool-box as directed.

"I--I think that maybe you had better let us tow you to some garage," said the lady timorously, her voice barely audible above the old gentleman's noisy administrations.

"Search me," returned the Watermelon, standing by to lend assistance with every tool from the box in his arms or near by where he could reach it instantly at an imperious command.

"Automobiles," said the lady, "are like the modern schoolmarms, always breaking down."

"Like hoboes," suggested the Watermelon, "always broke."

The old gentleman straightened up. "There is something the matter with the gasolene inlet valve," he announced firmly.

"The whole car must be rotten," surmised the Watermelon, catching the oil-can as it was about to slip from his already over-burdened hands.

"No, no," returned the old gentleman reassuringly, as he buttoned his long linen cluster securely. "The crank shaft seems to be all right, but the--"

He knelt down, still talking, and the Watermelon had a horrible fear for a moment that his would-be benefactor was about to offer up prayers for the safety of the car. He reached out his hand to stay proceedings, when the old gentleman spoke:

"I must get under the car."

"Maybe it's all right," suggested the Watermelon, who did not like the idea of being forced to go after him with the tools.

"Father," the lady's voice was gentle, but firm, and the old gentleman paused. "Let Alphonse go. You know we are to dine with the Bartletts. Alphonse, please find out what the trouble is."

Alphonse alighted promptly. He was a thin, dapper little man with a blase superiority that was impressive as betokening a profound knowledge of the idiosyncrasies of motor-cars. He plainly had no faith in the old gentleman's diagnosis. He approached the car and announced the trouble practically at once.

"There is no gasolene."

The old gentleman was not in the least perturbed over his own slight error in judgment. "A frequent, very frequent oversight," said he, rising. "We will tow you to the hotel, my dear sir. You can get the gasolene there."

"Never mind," said the Watermelon. "I can hoof it."

"Hoof it!" The old gentleman was pained and hurt. "Hoof it, when I have my car right here! No, indeed. Alphonse, get the rope."

The Watermelon protested. "Aw, really, you know--"

"Weren't you going to the hotel?"

"I was thinking some of it. But the car--"

"Alphonse, get the rope. It will be a pleasure. We have always got to lend assistance to a broken car. We may be in the same fix ourselves some day."

Alphonse brought the rope and the Watermelon watched them adjust it. When the last knot was tied to the old gentleman's liking, he turned to the Watermelon and presented him with his card. The Watermelon took it and read the name, "Brig.-General Charles Montrose Grossman, U.S.A., Retired." Then, not to be outdone, he reached in the still unexplored pockets of his new clothes with confident ease, and finding a pocket-book drew it forth, opened it on the mere chance that there would be a card within, found one and presented it to the general with lofty unconcern, trusting that the general and the owner of the clothes were not acquainted.

"William Hargrave Batchelor," read the general aloud, while his round fat face beamed with pleasure. "I have heard about you, sir, and am glad to make your acquaintance."

The Watermelon grasped the extended hand and wrung it with fervor. "The pleasure is all mine," said he with airy grace and sublime self-assurance.

"Let me present you to my daughter. Henrietta, this is young Mr. Batchelor of New York. You have read about him, my dear, in the papers. He broke the cotton ring on Wall Street last week. You may remember. Miss Grossman, Mr. Batchelor."

The girl put out her hand and the Watermelon shook it. Her hand was slender and white, soft as velvet and well cared for. The Watermelon's was big and brown and coarse, and entirely neglected as to the nails. Henrietta noticed it with fastidious amusement. William Hargrave Batchelor was not in her estimation, formed from the little she had read about him in the papers, a gentleman. He had started life as a newsboy on the streets of New York, and doubtless had not had his suddenly acquired wealth long enough to be familiar with the small niceties of life. Besides, he was so young and so good-looking, one could forgive him a great deal more than dirty nails.

"You hardly look as old as I imagined you to be from the papers," declared the general, regarding a bit enviously the youth who had made millions in a few short weeks by a sensational stroke of financial genius.

"I have a young mug," explained the Watermelon modestly.

The general looked a bit startled. Henrietta laughed. She had always wanted to meet a man in the making.

"I hope that if you have no other engagement, you will dine with us," said she.

"Certainly," cried the general. "Have you a previous appointment?"

"With myself," said the Watermelon. "To dine."

"You will dine with us," declared the general, and that settled it. "Get into my car. Alphonse will steer yours."

The Watermelon made one last protest against highway robbery in broad daylight, but the general waved him to silence and the Watermelon decided that if they wished to make off with the stranger's car it was no fault of his. He had done his best to stop it. He climbed into the general's car, the general cranked up and they were off, Alphonse and the Thomas car trailing along behind.

*CHAPTER IV*

*AND WHEN I DINE*

Henrietta turned sidewise that she might the better converse with her guest.

"I noticed by the papers that you always make it a point to spend Sundays in the country somewhere near New York, so that you can return quickly in your car. I suppose that you really need the rest and quiet for your week's work."

"I never work when I can rest," said the Watermelon truthfully.

"That's right, that's right," agreed the general, torn between a desire to talk to the phenomenal young financier, who in one night had set New York all agog, and to avoid a smash-up with the stone walls on either side of the road. "Men are altogether too eager to make money."

"Yes," said Henrietta. "Everything nowadays is money, money, money." Then remembering who her guest was, she added quickly, "I think it is splendid in your getting away from it all and spending one day a week in the country, close to nature. They say that stock-brokers are never happy away from the Street."

"But I am not a stock-broker," explained the Watermelon, with his candid, boyish smile. "I'm a lamb."

Henrietta laughed. "But not fleeced," said she gaily.

"Not yet," admitted the Watermelon, wondering if William Hargrave Batchelor was still enjoying his swim.

"What you want to do, now that you have made your 'pile,'" advised the general, as the machine swerved dangerously near a tree, "is to leave the Street at once. Invest your money in U.S. government bonds and buy a place in the country."

"You don't like the country yourself, father, except in the summer," objected Henrietta.

"That's all right, my dear, but when a man has three millions invested in government bonds, he does not have to spend all of his life in the country. Your last deal brought you three millions, I believe the papers said?" Never before had the general discussed a friend's private affairs with such sylvan frankness and interest, with such complete unconsciousness of his own rudeness, but the youth who had risen one night from the obscurity of New York's multitude to a position of importance in the greatest money market in the world appeared to the general in the light of a public character, and as he would have discussed aviation with the Wright brothers, the North Pole with Peary, so now he discussed money with the Watermelon.

"Three, ten," chuckled the Watermelon.

"Ah, yes," sighed the general. Money is power and every man wants power. The general was old, without the time, training or opportunity to make money, while this long-legged youth with the ridiculous woman's eyes, sat on the back seat and babbled lightly of millions as the general could hardly do of thousands.

"Ah, yes, three millions. Have you ever lived in the country?"

"Oh, off and on," said the Watermelon.

"I suppose you are fond of it or you wouldn't come up here every Sunday," went on the general, missing the wall on the right by a fraction of an inch. "Do you care for fishing?"

"If the bites ain't too plentiful."

Henrietta laughed. "You can't do it, Mr. Batchelor," said she.

"Do what?" asked the Watermelon, leaning forward. The Watermelon never lacked self-assurance under any circumstances, and before a pretty girl it merely grew in adverse ratio to the girl's years and in direct ratio to her good looks. Henrietta was not pretty, but she had charm and grace and good breeding, and a combination of the three sometimes equals prettiness.

"Make us believe that you are as lazy as you are trying to."

"If I can't do it, I won't try," laughed the Watermelon. "But you can't do it, either."

"Do what?"

"Make me believe that you are the general's daughter," returned the Watermelon, letting his voice fall, gently and softly. The general was busy at that moment preventing the car from climbing a tree and trying to decide between Maine and Virginia as the best place for the Watermelon to invest in his country estate. Personally, he preferred Maine in summer and Virginia in winter. Was it therefore preferable to roast in summer and be comfortable in winter, or to freeze in winter and enjoy yourself in summer?

"Don't I look like him?" asked Henrietta, wishing that she had not made the conversation quite so personal thus early in their acquaintance.

"You look like him," admitted the Watermelon, "but--"

Henrietta laughed faintly. "You wouldn't take me for his sister, would you?" she questioned, fearing he would say yes. William Hargrave Batchelor had spent his youth peddling papers and blacking boots. A frank disregard for all social graces and hypocrisies was doubtless one of his most pronounced characteristics. The little social amenities would hardly be required in the strenuous existence of newsboy and boot-black.

"For his granddaughter," said the Watermelon.

"Of course," said the general, aloud, "Maine has fine shooting in winter."

"None of Maine for mine," declared the Watermelon conclusively. "Maine is a prohibition state."

The general frowned. "You don't drink, I hope, young man?"

"Drink," said the Watermelon, making Henrietta think unreasonably of a minister, "Drink causes a psychological condition which each man should experience to obtain a clear insight into the normal condition of the mind." He paused impressively and Henrietta felt almost compelled to say "Amen," for what reason she did not know. "But," added the youth in the solemn tones of the benediction, "when I get--lit, I like to do it on whisky and not poison."

The general who had intended a scathing reply, and firm but gentle counsel to lead back to the narrow path this promising young man hovering on the brink of ruin, with all his glorious possibilities, found himself agreeing.

The car had reached the top of the steep hill, and suddenly left the trees, the narrow, woodland road, with the columbine and wild roses nodding at them from the underbrush, and swept out on to a wide, well-kept driveway, with smooth rolling lawns on each side and a majestic white building as a crowning glory on the top of the hill.

Grandview did not belie its name. High on the topmost ridge, it looked over valley and woods and streams, beyond to farther hills, peak after peak, range after range, fading into a blue shadow against the sky. It was a big, square, garish building, gaunt and unlovely among its lovely surroundings. There were two porches, one up-stairs and one below. They were filled with chairs and gay, brightly fringed hammocks. Behind the hotel was a stable and garage, white and gaunt and square like the main building.

It was the dinner hour and in the country there is never any need to urge one to the table. So, save for a man and a girl, waiting on the steps, there was no one in sight.

"There are the Bartletts now," cried Henrietta, as the train of cars approached the porch. "Poor dears, we have kept them waiting."

"I wonder," said the Watermelon, "why a guy always gets so hungry on Sunday."

"Nothing else to do," suggested Henrietta, "but eat."

The car stopped and she started to alight but the Watermelon was before, offering his hand with a grace bred of absolute unconsciousness of self.

"Alphonse can take your car to the garage and fill it with gasolene," said the general. He always felt that after he had done his best to put a car out of order for good, he practically owned the car and its owner.

"Aw, don't bother," protested the Watermelon.

"Tush, tush, man, it is no bother," and the general turned to the coldly respectful Alphonse.