Trailin'!

by Max Brand

  CHAPTER III

  SOCIAL SUICIDE

  At his box, Woodbury stopped only to huddle into his coat and overcoatand pull his hat down over his eyes. Then he hurried on toward an exit,but even this slight delay brought the reporters up with him. They hadscented news as the eagle sights prey far below, and then swooped downon him. He continued his flight shaking off their harrying questions,but they kept up the running fight and at the door one of them reachedhis side with: "It's Mr. Woodbury of the Westfall Polo Club, son of Mr.John Woodbury of Anson Place?"

  Anthony Woodbury groaned with dismay and clutched the grinning reporterby the arm.

  "Come with me!"

  Prospects of a scoop of a sizable nature brightened the eyes of thereporter. He followed in all haste, and the other news-gatherers, inobedience to the exacting, unspoken laws of their craft, stood back andfollowed the flight with grumbling envy.

  On Twenty-Sixth Street, a little from the corner of Madison Avenue,stood a big touring car with the chauffeur waiting in the front seat.There were still some followers from the Garden.

  Woodbury jumped into the back seat, drew the reporter after him, andcalled: "Start ahead, Maclaren--drive anywhere, but get moving."

  "Now, sir," turning to the reporter as the engine commenced to hum,"what's your name?"

  "Bantry."

  "Bantry? Glad to know you."

  He shook hands.

  "You know me?"

  "Certainly. I cover sports all the way from polo to golf. AnthonyWoodbury--Westfall Polo Club--then golf, tennis, trap shooting--"

  "Enough!" groaned the victim. "Now look here, Bantry, you have me deadto rights--got me with the goods, so to speak, haven't you?"

  "It was a great bit of work; ought to make a first-page story."

  And the other groaned again. "I know--son of millionaire rides unbrokenhorse in Wild West show--and all that sort of thing. But, good Lord,man, think what it will mean to me?"

  "Nothing to be ashamed of, is it? Your father'll be proud of you."

  Woodbury looked at him sharply.

  "How do you know that?"

  "Any man would be."

  "But the notoriety, man! It would kill me with a lot of people asthoroughly as if I'd put the muzzle of a gun in my mouth and pulled thetrigger."

  "H-m!" muttered the reporter, "sort of social suicide, all right. Butit's news, Mr. Woodbury, and the editor--"

  "Expects you to write as much as the rest of the papers print--and noneof the other reporters know me."

  "One or two of them might have."

  "But my dear fellow--won't you take a chance?"

  Bantry made a wry face.

  "Madison Square Garden," went on Woodbury bitterly. "Ten thousand peoplelooking on--gad, man, it's awful."

  "Why'd you do it, then?"

  "Couldn't help it, Bantry. By Jove, when that wicked devil of a horsecame at my box and I caught a glimpse of the red demon in his eyes--why,man, I simply had to get down and try my luck. Ever play football?"

  "Yes, quite a while ago."

  "Then you know how it is when you're in the bleachers and the whistleblows for the game to begin. That's the way it was with me. I wanted toclimb down into the field--and I did. Once started, I couldn't stopuntil I'd made a complete ass of myself in the most spectacular style.Now, Bantry, I appeal to you for the sake of your old football days,don't show me up--keep my name quiet."

  "I'd like to--damned if I wouldn't--but--a scoop--"

  Anthony Woodbury considered his companion with a strange yearning. Itmight have been to take him by the throat; it might have been somegentler motive, but his hand stole at last toward an inner coat pocket.

  He said: "I know times are a bit lean now and then in your game, Bantry.I wonder if you could use a bit of the long green? Just now I'm veryflush, and--"

  He produced a thickly stuffed bill-fold, but Bantry smiled and touchedWoodbury's arm.

  "Couldn't possibly, you know."

  He considered a moment and then, with a smile: "It's a bit awkward forboth of us, isn't it? Suppose I keep your name under my hat and you giveme a few little inside tips now and then on polo news, and that sort ofthing?"

  "Here's my hand on it. You've no idea what a load you take off my mind."

  "We've circled about and are pretty close to the Garden again. Could youlet me out here?"

  The car rolled to an easy stop and the reporter stepped out.

  "I'll forget everything you wish, Mr. Woodbury."

  "It's an honour to have met you, sir. Use me whenever you can.Goodnight."

  To the chauffeur he said: "Home, and make it fast."

  They passed up Lexington with Maclaren "making it fast," so that the bigcar was continually nosing its way around the machines in front withmuch honking of the horn. At Fifty-Ninth Street they turned across tothe bridge and hummed softly across the black, shimmering waters of theEast River; by the time they reached Brooklyn a fine mist was beginningto fall, blurring the wind-shield, and Maclaren slowed up perceptibly,so that before they passed the heart of the city, Woodbury leanedforward and said: "What's the matter, Maclaren?"

  "Wet streets--no chains--this wind-shield is pretty hard to seethrough."

  "Stop her, then. I'll take the wheel the rest of the way. Want to travela bit to-night."

  The chauffeur, as if this exchange were something he had been expecting,made no demur, and a moment later, with Woodbury at the wheel, the motorbegan to hum again in a gradually increasing crescendo. Two or threemotor-police glanced after the car as it snapped about corners with anominous skid and straightened out, whining, on the new street; but ineach case, having made a comfortable number of arrests that day, theyhad little heart for the pursuit of the grey monster through that chillmist.

  Past Brooklyn, with a country road before them, Woodbury cut out themuffler and the car sprang forward with a roar. A gust of increasingwind whipped back to Maclaren, for the wind-shield had been opened sothat the driver need not look through the dripping glass and minglingwith the wet gale were snatches of singing.

  The chauffeur, partly in understanding and partly from anxiety,apparently, caught the side of the seat in a firm grip and leanedforward to break the jar when they struck rough places. Around an elbowturn they went with one warning scream of the Klaxon, skidded horriblyat the sharp angle of the curve, and missed by inches a car from theopposite direction.

  They swept on with the startled yell of the other party ringing afterthem, drowned at once by the crackling of the exhaust. Maclaren raised afurtive hand to wipe from his forehead a moisture which was notaltogether rain, but immediately grasped the side of the seat again.Straight ahead the road swung up to meet a bridge and dropped sharplyaway from it on the further side. Maclaren groaned but the sound waslost in the increasing roar of the exhaust.

  They barely touched that bridge and shot off into space on the otherside like a hurdler clearing an obstacle. With a creak and a thud thebig car landed, reeled drunkenly, and straightened out in earnest,Maclaren craned his head to see the speedometer, but had not the heartto look; he began to curse softly, steadily.

  When the muffler went on again and the motor was reduced to a loud,angry humming, Woodbury caught a few phrases of those solemnimprecations. He grinned into the black heart of the night, streakedwith lines of grey where therein entered the halo of the headlights, andthen swung the car through an open, iron gate. The motor fell to adrowsily contented murmur that blended with the cool swishing of thetires on wet gravel.

  "Maclaren," said the other, as he stopped in front of the garage, "ifeveryone was as good a passenger as you I'd enjoy motoring; but afterall, a car can't act up like a horse." He concluded gloomily: "There'sno fight in it."

  And he started toward the house, but Maclaren, staring after thedeparting figure, muttered: "There's only one sort that's worse than adamn fool, and that's a young one."

  It was through a door opening off the veranda that Anthony entered thehouse, stealthily as a burg
lar, and with the same nervous apprehension.Before him stretched a wide hall, dimly illumined by a single lightwhich splashed on the Italian table and went glimmering across thefloor. Across the hall was his destination--the broad balustradedstaircase, which swept grandly up to the second floor. Toward this hetiptoed steadying himself with one hand against the wall. Almost to hisgoal, he heard a muffled footfall and shrank against the wall with acatlike agility, but, though the shadow fell steep and gloomy there,luck was against him.

  A middle-aged servant of solemn port, serene with the twofold dignity ofdouble chin and bald head, paused at the table in his progress acrossthe room, and swept the apartment with the judicial eye of one who knowsthat everything is as it should be but will not trust even the silenceof night. So that bland blue eye struck first on the faintly shiningtop hat of Anthony, ran down his overcoat, and lingered in gloomy dismayon the telltale streak of white where the trouser leg should have been.

  What he thought not even another Oedipus could have conjectured. Theyoung master very obviously did not wish to be observed, and in suchtimes Peters at could be blinder than the bat noon-day and more secretthan the River Styx. He turned away, unhurried, the fold of that doublechin a little more pronounced over the severe correctness of his collar.

  A very sibilant whisper pursued him. He stopped again, still withouthaste, and turned not directly toward Anthony, but at a discreet angle,with his eyes fixed firmly upon the ceiling.