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I doubt if any other ever had its admiral, though and that makes Baldpate supreme." "Its admiral?" "Yes. He isn't really that, I imagine sort of a vice, or an assistant, or whatever it is, long ago retired from the navy. Every summer he comes here, and the place revolves about him. It's all so funny. I wonder if any other crowd attains such heights of snobbishness as that at a summer resort?
"Here I am," repeated Billy Magee, "fleeing from the great glitter known as Broadway to do a little rational thinking in the solitudes. It's getting late, and I suggest that we start for Baldpate Inn at once." "This ain't exactly regular," Mr. Quimby protested. "No, it ain't what you might call a frequent occurrence. I'm glad to do anything I can for young Mr.
The justly celebrated moon that in summer months shed so much glamour on the romances of Baldpate Inn was no where in evidence as Mr. Magee crept along the ground close to the veranda. The snow sifted down upon him out of the blackness above; three feet ahead the world seemed to end. "A corking night," he muttered humorously, "for my debut in the hold-up business."
"I should say not," he remarked. "Whatever it's all about, I should say not. Put on your prettiest gown, my lady. I've invited the mayor to dinner." One summer evening, in dim dead days gone by, an inexperienced head waiter at Baldpate Inn had attempted to seat Mrs. J. Sanderson Clark, of Pittsburgh, at the same table with the unassuming Smiths, of Tiffin, Ohio. The remarks of Mrs.
How persistently this almost mythical starched man wove in and out of the melodrama at Baldpate Inn. "Well," continued Kendrick, "the admiral's eyes haunt me. Perhaps you know that he plays a game a game of solitaire. I have good reason to remember that game. It is a silly inconsequential game. You would scarcely believe that it once sent a man to hell." He stopped.
For in the captions under the pictures, in the head-lines, and in a first-page editorial, none of which the girl had written, the Star spoke admiringly of its woman reporter who had done a man's work who had gone to Baldpate Inn and had brought back a gigantic bribe fund "alone and unaided". "Indeed?" smiled Mr. Magee to himself.
A lot of the women ask me in soft tones about the great disappointment that drove me to old Baldpate, and I give 'em various answers, according to how I feel. Speaking to you as a friend, and considering the fact that it's the dead of winter, I may say there was little or no romance in my life. I married early, and stayed married a long time.
And no one must know, or they will try to stop me." "And after that?" "The deluge," she laughed without mirth. Up above them the great trees of Baldpate Mountain waved their black arms constantly as though sparring with the storm.
The hermit donned his coat, attended to a few household duties, and led the delegation outside. Dolefully he locked the door of his shack. The four started down the mountain. "Back to Baldpate with our cook," said Mr. Magee into the girl's ear. "I know now how Cæsar felt when he rode through Rome with his ex-foes festooned about his chariot wheels." Mr.
"Never," cried Magee. "This is no summer hotel affair to me. It's a real in winter and summer love, my dear in spring and fall and when you go away, I'm going too, about ten feet behind." "Yes," she laughed, "they talk that way at Baldpate the last weeks of summer. It's part of the game." They had come to the side of the hotel on which was the annex, and the girl stopped and pointed.
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