Chapter 10

SKINNER LANDS A CURMUDGEON

With his head full of these reflections but without any definite method to accomplish a rather indefinite purpose, Jackson strolled into the lobby of The Hotel the next morning.

"Who is this Skinner that was interviewed?" he asked the chief clerk, whom he had known for a long time.

Glibly the clerk recounted to Jackson all he knew about their guest, who had suddenly become illustrious through the magic touch of the J. Matthews Wilkinsons.

"Point him out to me," said Jackson. "I always like to look over these Eastern guys that know so much that ain't so about us Middle West people."

"The Skinners don't get down to breakfast before ten," said the clerk.

An hour later Jackson strolled in casually and took a chair opposite the desk. Here was an opportunity for the clerk, an opportunity which Jackson had arranged for him without his knowing it. He passed around from behind the desk and intercepted Skinner as he and Honey were about to step into the elevator.

"Mr. Skinner," he said, "I'd like you to meet one of our prominent citizens." He led Skinner over to where the curmudgeon was sitting. "Mr. Skinner, I want you to shake hands with Mr. Willard Jackson."

"How do you do, Mr. Skinner?" said Jackson, rather reservedly; for now that the game was going the way he had designed it should go, he wanted to make it appear that the clerk, and not he, had taken the initiative.

"I'm very glad to meet you, Mr. Jackson," said Skinner, with his accustomed cordiality.

"I saw your little squib in the paper," said Jackson. "You must belong to the Boost Club."

"It never does any harm to tell pleasant truths," said Skinner.

Presently Jackson remarked, "You're with McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc., I see."

"You know them?"

"Why, yes. I'm Willard Jackson."

"Oh, yes," laughed Skinner, "how stupid of me. Of course I know. Certainly I know." He caught Jackson's coat and drew him over and added confidentially, "I'm a little bit abstracted. You see, this is a kind of junketing expedition. Just what they said in the paper--a belated honeymoon. I've never had a chance before, and I'm devoting my whole time to giving the wife a good time." He pulled out his watch. "Say, you'll excuse me. We've got a date."

"Of course," said Jackson.

Skinner grasped Jackson's hand cordially. "Say, won't you run in again and have a chat? I'm awfully glad to have met you."

"Well, I'll be jiggered," said Jackson to himself as he left The Hotel. Anyhow, he reflected, as he walked downtown to his office, he'd taken the first step, he'd broken the ice. It had gone against the grain to do it, but it was entirely on the wife's account. He'd let Skinner take the next step. He'd be darned if _he_ would.

But as usual in social matters, the woman's domain entirely, the man in the case reckoned without his host!

For two whole days Jackson waited in his office for Skinner to appear--waited in vain. He dreaded going home to dinner, dreaded formula number two. Each night he half determined to 'phone some excuse and dine at the club, but put the suggestion aside as petty, shirking. However, nothing was said at dinner by the good Mrs. Curmudgeon, and Jackson began to feel that the incident was closed.

If only the departure, the sudden departure, of Skinner would be as conspicuously recorded as his advent had been, what a relief it would be. Nothing further appeared in the papers about Skinner, however, and Jackson was flattering himself that that gentleman had folded his tent like the Arab. A great calm prevailed in the heart of Jackson. But this proved to be only a weather-breeder.

Sunday morning when Jackson entered the breakfast room, he found his wife in tears. "Look," she cried, holding up the paper and pointing to the great headline.

"What's the matter? Some accident? Somebody dead?"

"I should say not! Somebody's very much alive! We're the dead ones!"

Jackson took the paper from her hand and read: "Important Social Event. The West dines the East. Mr. and Mrs. J. Matthews Wilkinson entertain at a quiet, select dinner Mr. and Mrs. William Manning Skinner, of New York. The dinner guests were Mr. and Mrs. Philip Armitage, Mr. and Mrs. Almeric Baird, Mr. and Mrs. Jack Wendell--"

Jackson put the paper down. Somehow he felt guilty. He avoided his wife's reproachful eyes. But he did n't dare cover up his ears, and the ear is not always so successful at avoiding as the eye. The eye can see only straight ahead, but the ear can hear from all around.

"Think of it," sniffled Mrs. Jackson, her sniffle developing into a blubber as she went on. "I'm not a snob, but why can't _I_ go with those people? We've got lots of money! I want to see the best kind of life, but I've never had the chance, and now these Skinners come here, are taken up,--wined and dined,--and we're left out in the cold!"

"How can I help that?" Jackson grunted. But he knew what was coming and it came.

"You _could_ have helped it. Traded with McLaughlin & Perkins, Inc., for years and then broke off--spoiled this chance!"

"How the deuce could I see two years ahead and know that Skinner was coming out here?" Jackson snapped. "Besides, he could n't have got us an invitation to that dinner anyhow!"

"The Wilkinsons have taken him up. They've established his social status. It was n't a public dinner, such as a politician gives to another politician; it was n't an automobile ride or a club affair. It was a private dinner, very private! They introduced him to the select few, the inner circle,--him and his wife,--his wife!!" she wailed.

"But what does that lead to?"

"We might not go there, but we could have had the Skinners here."

"What good would that do? It would n't put you in direct touch with the Wilkinsons, even if you did have the Skinners here."

"No, but it would help. The J. Matthews Wilkinsons dine them one day, the Willard Jacksons dine them another day. See--the connecting link?"

"Oh, damn these social distinctions," said Jackson. "It's you women that make 'em. We men don't!"

"I can't eat any breakfast," Mrs. Jackson sobbed. "I'm too upset. I must go to my room!"

Jackson did n't eat much breakfast either. When his wife had gone, he threw the paper to the floor and kicked it under the table, then he jammed his hat on to his head, and with a whole mass of profanity bubbling and boiling within him, he left the house. In the calm that succeeded the storm within, Jackson reflected that his present domestic tranquillity was threatened by the presence of these Skinners, and not only that, but their coming, if he could not avail of it, would be a source of reproach for years to come. Being something of a bookkeeper, he figured out that if, on the one hand, he might be compelled to eat a bit of humble pie,--not customarily a part of the curmudgeon's diet,--on the other hand, he would gain perhaps years of immunity from reproaches and twitting.

Many times he passed and re-passed The Hotel, first with a grim determination to go in, and then with as grim a determination not to go in. But at last his wife's troubled, haunting eyes won, as they always did, and he went in.

Jackson waited an hour before Skinner appeared. Skinner had reckoned that about that time the curmudgeon would be lounging around downstairs, waiting to meet him quite accidentally, so he permitted himself a cigar and a stroll in the office, which stroll was made to appear casual.

The curmudgeon had disposed himself in a huge armchair, which commanded a view of the elevator, and no sooner did he see Skinner emerge than he busied himself assiduously staring at, but not perceiving, the pages of the Sunday magazine section. With equal assiduity, Skinner, who as soon as he had left the elevator had observed Jackson, avoided seeing him, although he clearly perceived him.

Thus they played at cross-purposes for a while, these two overgrown boys.

"Hello," said Jackson, looking up from his paper as Skinner strolled past for the fourth time. "You here yet?"

"I hate to tear myself away," said Skinner. "Have a cigar?"

Jackson took the weed and indicated a chair next his own.

"By Jove," said Skinner, seating himself and crossing his legs comfortably, "I like this town. Wonderful climate, fine people--and"--he turned to Jackson--"devilish good grub."

"Have you had a trout dinner yet?" said Jackson.

"Yes. Out at the Lake the other day."

"I mean a _real_ one--cooked by a _real_ cook--all the trimmings."

"No, I can't say that I have."

Jackson paused, drummed on the arm of his chair, and swallowed hard. "I've got the best cook in the Middle West," he observed.

"That's going some."

"You think you've eaten, don't you? Well, you haven't. You ought to try _my_ cook."

"That would be fine," said Skinner.

Skinner knew exactly what Jackson would say next. It was wonderful, he thought, almost uncanny, how the curmudgeon was doing just what he had schemed out that he would do--willed him to do. He felt like a magician operating the wires for some manikin to dance at the other end or a hypnotist directing a subject.

Things were going swimmingly for Jackson, too. He felt that he had executed his little scheme very well, without any danger of being found out or even suspected, yet he had never known things to fall in line as they were doing now. Still, he flattered himself it was good management. For Jackson was not a believer in luck.

"How long are you going to stay here?" he asked abruptly.

"Tuesday morning."

"You and the Missus had better come out and try that cook of mine before you go."

Jackson affected indifference, but his heart was beating high, higher than it had beaten for years, for he was a man that had always had his own way, and was not given to argument or diplomatic finessing. Having shot his bolt, Jackson waited.

Skinner turned in his chair. "That's mighty good of you, old chap," he said cordially. "You're just like these other hospitable Westerners. You've bragged about your cook and you want to show me that you can make good. But I'll let you off--I'll take your word for it this time."

"I don't want you to take my word for it," Jackson retorted. "Besides, I'd like to have your wife meet my wife!"

"So would I," said Skinner. He paused a moment.

Right here was the bit of humble pie that Jackson had prepared to eat, if necessary, but taken from the hand of a cordial fellow like Skinner, it would n't be so hard, after all.

"Skinner, you 're a good fellow--so am I a good fellow. I like you. There's no reason why we should n't be friends--personally--you understand."

"Mr. Jackson," said Skinner, "you're a frank man. I'm going to be frank with you. I don't feel that it would be loyal to my firm if I should accept your hospitality, under the circumstances. It's all well enough to be impersonal, separate business life from social life but"--and here he began to butter the humble pie that he had felt it to be inevitable that Jackson should eat--"you stood mighty well with our house. You've got a great reputation. It was most important to us. We did everything we could to please you. After the break came, we went the limit in the way of eating humble pie to get you back again. But you set your face against us hard. I might even waive that, but just you look at it yourself." Skinner laughed. "You know you did n't treat McLaughlin very well--and the curious part was, McLaughlin was always very fond of you personally."

At the last words Jackson capitulated. "See here, you and the Missus come out to dinner to-morrow night and we'll talk things over."

Skinner hesitated.

"I've thought this all out," said Jackson. "The Starr-Bacon folks have been figuring on that bunch of machinery that I'm going to get in. Here's what they say. Can you meet those figures?"

Skinner looked over the memorandum Jackson handed him and made a quick calculation. "Yes," said he, "we can meet them."

"The order is yours."

"I won't take it," said Skinner, "unless you throw in that trout dinner."

That night Skinner wired McLaughlin and Perkins, Inc., that he'd caught the bear and was bringing the hide home with him--the hide being the fattest order that that concern had had for many a day.

Then he jotted down in his little book:--

_Dress-Suit Account_

_Debit_ _Credit_

Landed one curmudgeon!

Bait used--domestic tranquillity!

Method--did n't use any! Just stood off and waited, and he landed himself.