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South is simply, as yet, uncivilized. Otherwise, he would hardly take you, unchaperoned, to well, let us say to ultra-bohemian resorts, where you are seen by such gossip-mongers as William Farbish." "So, that's the specific charge, is it?" "Yes, that's the specific charge. Mr. South may be a man of unusual talent and strength. But he has done what no other man has done with you.
Yet, it was a tribute to his advancement in good manners that he dreaded making a scene in her presence, and, as a warning, he met Farbish's pleasant smile with a look of blank and studied lack of recognition. The circumstances out of which Farbish might weave unpleasant gossip did not occur to Samson.
"What's singular?" impatiently demanded his companion. "Finish, or don't start." "That mountaineer came up here as George Lescott's protege," went on Farbish, reflectively. "He came fresh from the feud belt, and landed promptly in the police court. Now, in less than a year, he's pairing off with Adrienne Lescott who, every one supposed, meant to marry Wilfred Horton.
Adrienne Lescott, following her companion's eyes, looked up, and to the boy's astonishment nodded to the new-comer, and called him by name. "Mr. Farbish," she laughed, with mock confusion and total innocence of the fact that her words might have meaning, "don't tell on us." "I never tell things, my dear lady," said the newcomer. "I have dwelt too long in conservatories to toss pebbles.
"I supposed you knew, or I shouldn't have broached the topic." "Knew what?" "You must excuse me," demurred the visitor with dignity. "I shouldn't have mentioned the subject. I seem to have said too much." "See here, Mr. Farbish," Samson spoke quietly, but imperatively; "if you know any reason why I shouldn't meet Mr. Wilfred Horton, I want you to tell me what it is. He is a friend of my friends.
As Samson started toward Farbish, the conspirator rose, and, with an excellent counterfeit of insulted virtue, pushed back his chair. "By God," he indignantly exclaimed, "you mustn't try to embroil me in your quarrels. You must apologize. You are talking wildly, South." "Am I?" questioned the Kentuckian, quietly; "I'm going to act wildly in a minute."
The boy shook hands, gazing with his usual directness into the show -girl's large and deeply-penciled eyes. Farbish, standing at one side with his hands in his pockets, looked on with an air of slightly bored detachment. His dress, his mannerisms, his bearing, were all those of the man who has overstudied his part.
I'm afraid, Mr. South, you have forgotten me. I'm Farbish, and I had the pleasure of meeting you" he paused a moment, then with a pointed glance added "at the Manhattan Club, was it not?" "It was not," said Samson, promptly.
But when, a day or two later, he dropped into the same club with George Lescott, Farbish joined them in the grill without invitation. "By the way, Lescott," said the interloper, with an easy assurance upon which the coolness of his reception had no seeming effect, "it won't be long now until ducks are flying south. Will you get off for your customary shooting?" "I'm afraid not."
That day, while the mountaineer was out on the flats, the party of men at the club had been swelled to a total of six, for in pursuance of the carefully arranged plans of Mr. Farbish, Mr. Bradburn had succeeded in inducing Wilfred Horton to run down for a day or two of the sport he loved.
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