Chapter 4

"My dear boy, don't ask me such questions!" Hood remarked with an injured air. "You are guilty of the gravest error in sending telegrams without consulting me! How can we trust ourselves to Providence if you persist in sending telegrams! If you do this again, I shall be seriously displeased, and you mustn't displease Hood. Hood is very ugly in his wrath."

Deering was at the point of tears. Hood was a fool, and he wished to tell him so, but the words stuck in his throat.

"We move eastward toward the Connecticut border, Cassowary," Hood ordered and pushed Deering into the machine.

Hood was as merry as the morning itself, and talked ceaselessly as they rolled through the country, occasionally bidding Cassowary slow down and give heed to his discourse. The chauffeur listened with a grin, glancing guardedly at Deering, who stared grimly ahead with an unlighted cigar in his mouth. He was not to be disturbed in his meditations upon the blackness of the world by the idiotic prattle of a madman. For half an hour Hood had been describing his adventures with a Dublin University man, whose humor he pronounced the keenest and most satisfying he had ever known. He had gathered from this person an immense fund of lore relating to Irish superstitions.

"He left me just when I had learned to love him," Hood concluded mournfully. "Became fascinated with a patent-medicine faker we struck at a county fair in Indiana. He was so tickled over the way the long-haired doctor played the banjo and jollied the crowd that he attached himself to his caravan. That Irishman was one of the most agreeable men to be in jail with that I ever knew; even hardened murderers would cotton to him. That spire over there must be Addington. The inn is nothing to boast of, but we'd better tackle it."

His gayety at luncheon once more won Deering to a cheerier view of his destiny. Hood called for the proprietor and lectured him roundly for offering canned-blueberry pie. The fact that blueberries were out of season made no difference to the outraged Hood; pie produced from a can was a gross imposition. He cited legal decisions covering such cases and intimated that he might bring proceedings. As the innkeeper strode angrily away an elderly woman at a neighboring table addressed the dining-room on the miserable incompetence of the pastry-cooks of these later times, winding up by thanking Hood heartily for his protest. She was from Boston, she announced, and the declining intellectual life of that city she attributed to the deterioration of its pie.

Hood rose and gravely replied in a speech of five minutes, much to the delight of two girls at the old lady's table. Hood wrote his name on the menu card, and bade the giggling waitress hand it to the lady from Boston. Her young companions conferred for a moment, and then sent back a card on which appeared these names neatly pencilled:

Maid Marian The Queen of Sheba The Duchess of Suffolk (Mass.)

"My dear boy," Hood remarked to Deering after he had bowed elaborately to the trio, "I tell you the whole world's caught step with us! That lady and her two nieces, or granddaughters as the case may be, are under the spell, just as you and I are and Cassowary and your Pierrette and Babette of the bungalow. If only you could yield yourself to the May spirit, how happy we might be! Just think of Cassowary; worth a million dollars and eating his lunch with the chauffeurs somewhere below stairs and picking up much information that he will impart to me later! What a bully world this would be if all mankind followed my system: stupid conventions all broken-down; the god of mirth holding his sides as he contemplates the world at play! You may be sure that old lady is a stickler for the proprieties when she's at home; widow of a bishop most likely. Those girls have been carefully reared, you can see that, but full of the spirit of mischief. The moment I tackled that stupid innkeeper about his monstrous pie they felt the drawing of the mystic tie that binds us together with silken cords. Very likely they, like us, are in search of adventure, and if our own affairs were less urgent I should certainly cultivate their further acquaintance."

The lady who called herself the Duchess of Suffolk (Mass.) was undoubtedly a person of consequence and the possessor of a delightful humor. Deering assumed that she and her companions were abroad upon a lark of some kind and were enjoying themselves tremendously. Hood's spell renewed its grip upon him. It occurred to him that the whole world might have been touched with the May madness, and that the old order of things had passed forever. It seemed ages since he had watched the ticker in his father's office. As they sat smoking on the veranda the Duchess of Suffolk, the Queen of Sheba, and Maid Marian came out and entered a big car. The old lady bowed with dignity as the car moved off; the girls waved their hands.

"Perfect!" Hood muttered as he returned their salutations. "We may never meet again in this world, but the memory of this encounter will abide with me forever."

"I don't want to appear fussy, Hood," Deering began good-naturedly, "but would you mind telling me what's next on your programme?"

"Not in the slightest. It's just occurred to me that it would be well to dine to-night in one of the handsome villas scattered through these hills. Still following the slipper, we shall choose one somewhere east of the inn and present ourselves confidently at the front door. Failing there, we shall assault the postern and, perhaps, enrich our knowledge of life with the servants' gossip."

"There are some famous kennels in this neighborhood, and I'd hate awfully to have an Airedale bite a hole in my leg," Deering suggested.

"My dear boy, that's the tamest thing that could happen to us! My calves are covered with scars from dogs' teeth; you soon get hardened to canine ferocity. We'll take a tramp for an hour to work the fuzz off our gray matter, and then a nap to freshen us up for the evening. We shall learn much to-night; I'm confident of that."

There seemed to be no way of escaping Hood or changing his mind once he announced a decision. The programme was put through exactly as he had indicated. The important thing about the tramp was that Cassowary accompanied them on the walk, and Deering found him both agreeable and interesting. He discoursed of polo, last year's Harvard-Yale football game, and ice-boating, in which he seemed deeply experienced.

Hood left them to look for hieroglyphics on a barn which he said was a veritable palimpsest of cryptic notations of roving thieves.

Cassowary's manner underwent a marked change when he and Deering were alone.

"If you're going to give the old boy the slip," he said earnestly, "I want you to give me notice. I'm not going to be left alone with him."

Their eyes met in a long scrutiny; then Deering laughed.

"I don't know how you feel about it, but, by George, I'm afraid to shake him!"

"That's exactly my fix," Cassowary answered. "I was in a bad way when he picked me up: just about ready to jump off a high building and let it go at that. And I must say he does make things seem brighter. He mustn't see us talking off key, as he'd say, but I'd like to ask you this: what's he running away from? That's what worries me. What's he grabbing newspapers for all the time and slashing out ads and other queer stuff?"

"You've got me there," Deering replied soberly. "We ran into some men the other night who he said were detectives looking for him, but it didn't seem to worry him any."

"There's nothing new in _that_. We've struck a number of men who apparently were looking for somebody, and he greatly enjoys chaffing them. If he's really a crook, he wouldn't be exposing himself to arrest as he does."

Hood was now returning from his investigations of the barn, and as he crossed the pasture was examining a bunch of the newspaper clippings with which his pockets were stuffed.

"You needn't be afraid of getting into trouble with him," Cassowary remarked admiringly. "He pulls off things you wouldn't think could be done. He's a marvel, that man!"

"Old Bill Fogarty's been ripping into the country stores in these parts," began Hood volubly; "found his mark on the barn, all right. Amusing cuss, Fogarty. Sawed himself out of most of the jails between here and Bangor. We'll probably meet up with him somewhere. It's about time to go back for that snooze, boys. To the road again!"

He strode off singing, in a very good tenor voice, snatches from Italian operas, and his pace was so rapid that his companions were hard pressed to keep up with him.

VII

Evening dress was becoming to Hood, enhancing the distinction which his rough corduroys never wholly obscured. He surveyed Deering critically, gave a twist to his tie, and said it was time to be off. As they drove slowly through the country he discussed the various houses they passed, speculating as to the entertainment they offered. He finally ordered Cassowary to stop at the entrance to an imposing estate, where a large colonial mansion stood some distance from the highway.

"This strikes me as promising," he remarked, rising in the car and craning his neck to gain a view of the house through the shrubbery. "Drive in, Cassowary, and stand by with the car till you see whether we have to run for it."

He gave the electric annunciator a prolonged push, and as a butler opened the door advanced into the hall with his most authoritative air.

"Mr. Hood and Mr. Tuck. I trust I correctly understood that we dine at seven." The man eyed them with surprise but took their coats and hats. "We are expected. Please announce us immediately."

Deering followed him bewilderedly into the drawing-room and planted himself close to the door.

"Assurance, my dear boy, conquers all things," Hood declaimed. "This stuff looks like real Chippendale, and the rugs seem to be genuine." He sniffed contemptuously as he posed before a long mirror for a final inspection of his raiment. "It always pains me to detect the odor of boiled vegetables when I enter a strange house. Architects tell me that it is almost impossible to prevent----"

A woman's figure flashed in the mirror beside him, and he whirled round and bowed from the hips.

"I trust you are not so lacking in the sense of hospitality that you find yourself considering means of ejecting us. My comrade and I are weary from a long journey."

Turning quickly, her gaze fell upon Deering, who was stealing on tiptoe toward the door.

"Halt!" commanded Hood.

Deering paused and sheepishly faced his hostess.

She was a small, trim, graceful woman, of the type that greets middle life smilingly and with no fear of what may lie beyond. Her dark hair had whitened, but her rosy cheeks belied its insinuations. She viewed Deering with frank curiosity, but with no indication of alarm. She was not a woman one would consciously annoy, and Deering's face burned as he felt her eyes inspecting him from head to foot. He had never before been so heartily ashamed of himself; once out of this scrape, he meant to escape from Hood and lead a circumspect, orderly life.

"Which is Hood and which is Tuck?" the woman asked with a faint smile.

"The friar is the gentleman standing on one foot at your right," Hood answered. "Conscious of my unworthiness, I plead guilty to being Hood--Hood the hobo delectable, the tramp incomprehensible!"

"Incomprehensible," she repeated; "you strike me as altogether obvious."

"You never made a greater mistake," Hood returned with asperity. "But the question that now agitates us is simply this: do we eat or do we not?"

Deering looked longingly at a chair with which he felt strongly impelled to brain his suave, unruffled companion. Hood apparently was hardened to such encounters, and stood his ground unflinchingly. All Deering's instincts of chivalry were roused by the little woman, who had every reason for turning them out of doors. He resolved to make it easy for her to do so.

"I beg your pardon--" he faltered.

Hood signalled to him furiously behind her back to maintain silence.

"No apology would be adequate," she remarked with dignity. "We'd better drop that and consider your errand on its strict merits."

"Admirably said, madam," Hood rejoined readily. "We ask nothing of you but seats at your table and the favor of a little wholesome and stimulating conversation, which I refuse to believe you capable of denying us."

A clock somewhere began to boom seven. She waited for the last stroke to die away.

"I make it a rule never to deny food to any applicant, no matter how unworthy. You may remain."

Deering had hardly adjusted himself to this when an old gentleman entered the room, and with only the most casual glance at the two pilgrims walked to the grand piano, shook back his cuffs, and began playing Mendelssohn's "Spring Song," as though that particular melody were the one great passion of his life. When he had concluded he rose and shook down his cuffs.

"If that isn't music," he demanded, walking up to the amazed Deering, who still clung to his post by the door, "what is it? Answer me that!"

"You played it perfectly," Deering stammered.

"And you," he demanded, whirling upon Hood, "what have you to say, sir?"

"The great master himself would have envied your touch," Hood replied.

The old gentleman glared. "Rot!" he ejaculated; and then, turning to the mistress of the house, he asked: "Do these ruffians dine with us?"

"They seem about to do us that honor. My father, Mr. Hood, and--Mr. Tuck. Shall we go out to dinner?"

The gentleman she had introduced as her father glared again--a separate glare for each--and, advancing with a ridiculous strut, gave the lady his arm.

In the hall Hood intercepted Deering in the act of effecting egress by way of the front door. His fingers dug deeply into his nervous companion's arm as he dragged him along, talking in his characteristic vein:

"My dear Tuck, it's a pleasure to find ourselves at last in a home whose appointments speak for breeding and taste. The portrait on our right bears all the marks of a genuine Copley. Madam, may I inquire whether I correctly attribute that portrait to our great American master?"

"You are quite right," she answered over her shoulder. "The subject of the portrait is my great-great-grandfather."

"My dear Tuck!" cried Hood jubilantly, still clutching Deering's arm, "fate has again been kind to us; we are among folk of quality, as I had already guessed."

The dining-room was in dark oak; the glow from concealed burners shed a soft light upon a round table.

"You will sit at my right, Mr. Hood, and Mr. Tuck by my father on the other side."

Deering pinched himself to make sure he was awake. The next instant the room whirled, and he clutched the back of his chair for support. A girl came into the room and walked quickly to the seat beside him.

"Mr Hood and Mr. Tuck, my daughter----"

She hesitated, and the girl laughingly ejaculated: "Pierrette!"

"Sit down, won't you, please," said the little lady; but Deering stood staring open-mouthed at the girl.

Beyond question, she was the girl of the Little Dipper; there was no mistaking her. At this point the old gentleman afforded diversion by rising and bowing first to Hood and then to Deering.

"I am Pantaloon," he said. "My daughter is Columbine, as you may have guessed."

"It's very nice to see you again," Pierrette remarked to Deering; "but, of course, I didn't know you would be here. How goes the burgling?"

"I--er--haven't got started yet. I find it a little difficult----"

"I'm afraid you're not getting much fun out of the adventurous life," she suggested, noting the wild look in his eyes.

"I don't understand things, that's all," he confessed, "but I think I'm going to like it."

"You find it a little too full of surprises? Oh, we all do at first! You see grandfather is seventy, and he never grew up, and mamma is just like him. And I--" She shrugged her shoulders and flashed a smile at her grandparent.

"You are wonderful--bewildering," Deering stammered.

The old gentleman was inveighing at Hood upon America's lack of mirth; the American people had utterly lost their capacity for laughter, the old man averred. Deering's fork beat a lively tattoo on his plate as he attacked his caviar.

And then another girl entered and walked to the remaining vacant place opposite him.

"Smeraldina," murmured the mistress of the house, glancing round the table, and calmly finishing a remark the girl's entrance had interrupted.

Deering's last hold upon sanity slowly relaxed. Unless his wits were entirely gone, he was facing his sister Constance. She wore a dark gown, with white collar and cuffs, and her manner was marked by the restraint of an upper servant of some sort who sits at the family table by sufferance. He was about to gasp out her name when she met his eyes with a glinty stare and a quick shake of the head. Then Pierrette addressed a remark to her--kindly meant to relieve her embarrassment--referring to a walk over the hills they had taken together that afternoon.

"Ah, Smeraldina!" cried Pantaloon, "how is that last chapter? Columbine refuses to show me any more of the book until it is finished. I look to you to make a duplicate for my private perusal."

Here was light of a sort upon the strange household; its mistress was a writer of books; Constance was her secretary; but the effort to explain how his sister came to be masquerading in such a rôle left him doddering, and that she should refuse to recognize him--her own brother!

"If that new book is half as good as 'The Madness of May,'" Pantaloon was saying, "I shall not be disappointed."

"Oh, it's much better; infinitely better!" Constance declared warmly.

"Tuck, do you realize we are in the presence of greatness?" cried Hood. Then, turning to Columbine: "The author will please accept my heartiest congratulations!"

"Thank you kindly," replied the hostess. "I'm fortunate in my secretary. Smeraldina is my fifth, and the first who ever made a suggestion that was of the slightest use. The others had no imagination; they all objected to being called Smeraldina, and one of them was named Smith!"

"I'm afraid I'm the first who ever had the impertinence to suggest anything," Constance answered humbly.

This was not the sister Deering had known in his old life before he fell victim to the prevailing May madness. She was in servitude and evidently trying to make the best of it. She had been the jolliest, the most high-spirited of girls, and to find her now meekly acting as amanuensis to a lady whose very name he didn't know sent his imagination stumbling through the blindest of dark alleys.

Only the near presence of Pierrette and her perfect composure and good-nature checked his inclination to stand up and shout to relieve his feelings.

"I hope you don't mind my not turning up for breakfast," she remarked in her low, bell-like tones.

Deering's hopes rose. That breakfast at the bungalow seemed the one tangible incident of his twenty-four hours in Hood's company and, perhaps, if he let her take the lead, he might find himself on solid earth again.

"I'd been week-ending with Babette; she's an artist, you know, and I'm posing for another of mamma's heroines. Babette got me up at daylight to pose for the last picture and then--I skipped and left her to manage the breakfast."

Her laugh as she said this established her identity beyond question. For a moment the thought of the packages of worthless wrapping-paper he had found in his suitcase chilled his happiness in finding her again; but it had not been her fault; the unbroken seals fully established her innocence.

"You understand, of course, that it's a dark secret that mother writes. She had scribbled for her own amusement all her life, and published 'The Madness of May' just to see what the public would do to it."

"I understand that it's immensely amusing," remarked Deering, thrilling as she turned toward him.

"Oh, you haven't read it!" she cried. "Mamma, Mr. Tuck hasn't read your book."

"My young friend is just beginning his education," interposed Hood. "I unhesitatingly pronounce 'The Madness of May' a classic--something the tired world has been awaiting for years!"

"Right!" cried Pantaloon. "You are quite right, sir. 'The Madness of May' isn't a novel, it's a text-book on happiness!"

"Truer words were never spoken!" exclaimed Hood with enthusiasm.

"Do you know," began Deering, when it was possible to address Pierrette directly again, "I don't believe I was built for this life. I find myself checking off the alphabet on my fingers every few minutes to see if I have gone plumb mad!"

She bent toward him with entreaty in her eyes. He observed that they were brown eyes! In the starlight he had been unable to judge of their color, and he was chagrined that he hadn't guessed at that first interview that she was a brown-eyed girl. Only a brown-eyed girl would have hung a moon in a tree! Brown eyes are immensely eloquent of all manner of pleasant things--such as mischief, mirth, and dreams. Moreover, brown eyes are so highly sensitized that they receive and transmit messages in the most secret of ciphers, and yet always with circumspection. He was perfectly satisfied with Pierrette's eyes and relieved that they were not blue, for blue eyes may be cold, and the finest of black eyes are sometimes dull. Gray eyes alone--misty, fathomless gray eyes--share imagination with brown ones. But neither a blue-eyed nor a black-eyed nor a gray-eyed Pierrette was to be thought of. Pierrette's eyes were brown, as he should have known, and what she was saying to him was just what he should have expected once the color of her eyes had been determined.

"Please don't! You must never try to _understand_ things like this! You see grandpa and mamma love larking, and this is a lark. We're always larking, you know."

Hood's voice rose commandingly:

"Once when I was in jail in Utica----"

Deering regretted his shortness of leg that made it impossible to kick his erratic companion under the table. But a chorus of approval greeted this promising opening, and Hood continued relating with much detail the manner in which he had once been incarcerated in company with a pickpocket whose accomplishments and engaging personality he described with gusto. There was no denying that Hood talked well, and the strict attention he was receiving evoked his best efforts.

Deering, covertly glancing at his sister, found that she too hung upon Hood's words. Her presence in the house still presented an enigma with which his imagination struggled futilely, but no opportunity seemed likely to offer for an exchange of confidences.

Constance was a thoroughbred and played her part flawlessly. Her treatment by her employer left nothing to be desired; the amusing little grandfather appealed to her now and then with unmistakable liking, and the smiles that passed between her and Pierrette were evidence of the friendliest relationship.

The dinner was served in a leisurely fashion that encouraged talk, and Deering availed himself of every chance for a tête-à-tête with Pierrette. She graciously came down out of the clouds and conversed of things that were within his comprehension--of golf and polo for example--and then passed into the unknown again. But in no way did she so much as hint at her identity. When she referred to her mother or grandfather she employed the pseudonyms by which he already knew them. While they were on the subject of polo he asked her if she had witnessed a certain match.