The Heart Line 23

The Heart Line 23

The fourth man was Philip Starr, a poet not long for San Francisco,

seeing that the Athanæum had already placed the laurels upon his brow—he

was as far from the conventional type of poet as is possible. He had a

lean, eager, sharply cut face, shrewd, quick eye and sinewy, long

fingers. His hair was close cropped, his mouth was tight and narrow.

Electricity seemed to dart from him as from a dynamo. Just now he was

teaching the company a new song—an old one, rather, for it was an

ancient Anglo-Saxon drinking-song, whose uproarious refrain was well

fitted to the temper of the assembly.

 

At one end of the table sat a young woman, _petite_, elf-like as a

little girl, a brown, cunning, soft-haired creature, smiling, smiling,

smiling, with eyes half closed, wrinkled in quiet mirth. This was Elsie

Dougal.

 

Opposite her was a girl of twenty-seven, with a handsome, clear-cut,

classic face, lighted with gray eyes, limpid and straightforward, making

her seem the most ingenuous of all. Mabel’s hair curled unmanageably,

springy and dark. Her face was serious and intent till her smile broke

and a little self-conscious laugh escaped.

 

Starr pounded with one fist upon the table, his thumb held stiffly

upright:

 

"Dance, Thumbakin, dance!"

 

he sang, and the chorus was repeated. Then with the heel of his palm

and his fingers outstretched, pounding merrily in time:

 

"Oh, dance ye merrymen, every one,"

 

then with his fist as before:

 

"For Thumbakin, he can dance alone!"

 

and, raising his fists high over his head, coming down with a bang:

 

"_For_

"Thumbakin he can dance alone!"

 

 

They went through the song together, dancing Foreman, Middleman, and

Littleman, ending in a pianissimo. Then over and over they sang that

queer, ancient tune, till all knew it by heart.

 

Benton pulled his manuscript from his pocket and read it confidentially

to Elsie, who smiled and smiled. Starr recited his last poem while

Dougal made humorous comments. Maxim broke out into a French student’s

_chanson_, so wildly improper that it took two men to suppress him.

Mabel giggled hysterically and began a long, dull story which, despite

interruptions, ended so brilliantly and so unexpectedly, that every one

wished he had listened.

 

Then Dougal called out:

 

"The cavalry charge! Ready! One finger!"

 

They tapped in unison, not too fast, each with a forefinger, upon the

table.

 

"Two fingers!"

 

The sound increased in volume.

 

"Three fingers, four fingers, five!"

 

The crescendo rose.

 

"Two hands! One foot! BOTH FEET!"

 

There was a hurricane of galloping fists and soles. Then, in diminuendo:

 

"One foot! One hand! Four fingers, three, two, one! Halt!"

 

The clatter grew softer and softer till at last all was still.

 

 

As Gay opened the door, Fancy heard a roar that increased steadily until

it became a wild hullabaloo. Looking in, she saw the six seated about

the table, the coffee glasses jumping madly with the percussion. The

noise was like the multitudinous charge of troopers. Then the tumult

died slowly away, the patter grew softer and softer, ending in a sudden

hush as seven faces looked up at her. Gay P. Summer’s advent was

greeted with frowns, but Fancy gathered an instant acclaim from twelve

critical eyes.

 

She stepped boldly into the room and shed the radiance of her smile upon

the company.

 

"I guess this is where I live, all right!" she announced. "I’ve been

gone a long time, haven’t I? Never mind the introductions. I’m Fancy

Gray, drifter; welcome to our fair city!"

 

They let loose a cry of welcome, and Dougal, rising, opened a place for

her between his chair and Maxim’s.

 

"I’m _for_ her!" He hailed her with a good-natured grin. "She’s the

right shape. Come and have coffee!"

 

"I accept!" said Fancy Gray.

 

Gay’s reception was by no means as cordial as hers, which had been

immediate and spontaneous at the sound of her caressing, jovial voice

and the sight of her genial smile, which seemed to embrace each separate

member of the party. They made grudging room for him beside Elsie, who

gave him a cold little hand. Mabel bowed politely.

 

"Where’d you get her, Gay?" said Starr. "You’re improving. She looks

like a pretty good imitation of the real thing."

 

"Oh, I’ll wash, all right," said Fancy.

 

Gay P. proudly introduced her to the company. He played her as he might

play a trump to win the seventh trick. Indeed, without Fancy’s aid, he

would have received scant welcome at that exclusive board. Many and loud

were the jests at Summer’s expense while he was away. Many and soft

were the jests he had not wit enough to understand when he was present.

Philip Starr had, at first sight of him, dubbed him "The Scroyle," and

this sobriquet stuck. Gay P. Summer was ill versed in Elizabethan lore,

but, had his wit been greater, his conceit would still have protected

him.

 

He had already unloaded Fancy, though he was as yet unaware of it. She

was taken up with enthusiasm by the men, whom she drew like a magnet.

Mabel and Elsie watched her with the keenness of women who are jealous

of any new element in their group. It was, perhaps, not so much rivalry

they feared, for their place was too well established, as the admittance

into that circle of one who would betray a tendency toward those petty

feline amenities that only women can perceive and resent.

 

But Fancy Gray showed no such symptoms. She did not bid for the men’s

attention. She made a point of talking to Elsie, and she managed

cleverly to include Mabel in the attention she received. Fancy, in her

turn, scrutinized the two girls artfully and made her own instantaneous

deductions. All of this by-play was, of course, quite lost upon the

men.

 

The talk sprang into new life and Fancy’s eye ran from one to another

member of the group, dwelling longest upon Dougal. His ugliness seemed

to fascinate her; and, as is often the case with ugly men, he inspired

her instant confidence. She made up to him without embarrassment or

concealment, taking his hairy hand and caressing it openly. At this,

Elsie’s eyelids half closed, but there was no sign of jealousy. Mabel

noticed the act, too, and her manner suddenly became warmer toward the

girl. By these two feminine reactions, Fancy saw that she had done

well.

 

They sang, they pounded the table; and, as an initiation, every man

saluted Fancy’s cheek. She took it like an empress. Then, suddenly,

Dougal held up two fingers. Every one’s eyes were turned upon him.

 

"_Piedra, Pinta?_" he cried, with a side glance at Fancy.

 

Every one voted. Mabel held up both her hands gleefully.

 

So was Fancy Gray, though she was not aware of the honor till afterward,

admitted to the full comradeship of the Pintos. It was a victory. Many

had, with the same ignorance as to what was happening, suffered an

ignominious defeat. Fancy’s election was unanimous.

 

And for this once, in gratitude for his discovery, Mr. Gay P. Summer,

The Scroyle, was suffered to inflict himself upon the coterie of the

Pintos.

 

There were other honors in store for Fancy Gray.

 

 

Piedra Pinta is two hours’ journey from San Francisco to the north, in

Marin County—a land of mountains, virgin redwood forests and

trout-filled streams. One takes the ferry to Sausalito, crossing the

northern bay, and rides for an hour or so up a little narrow-gage

squirming railroad into the canyon of Paper Mill Creek; and, if one has

discovered and appropriated the place, it is a mile walk up the track

and a drop from the embankment down a gravelly, overgrown slope, into

the camp-ground. Here a great crag rears its vertically split face,

hidden in beeches and bay trees. At its foot a flattened fragment has

fallen forward to do service as a fireplace. Beyond, there are more

boulders in the stream, which here widens and deepens, overhung by

clustering trees. Save when an occasional train rushes past overhead, or

a fisherman comes by, wading up-stream, the place is secret and silent.

Opposite, across the brook, an oat-field slopes upward to the country

road and the smooth drumlins beyond. A not too noisy crowd can here lie

hugger-mugger, hidden from the world.

 

To Piedra Pinta that next Saturday they came, bringing Fancy Gray, a

smiling captive, with them. The men bore blankets and books; the women

food and dishes enough for a picnic meal. They came singing, romping up

the track, big Benton first with the heaviest load. In corduroys and

jeans, in boots and flannel shirts they came. Little Elsie, like a girl

scout, wore a rakish slouch hat trimmed with live carnations, a short

skirt, leggings, a sheath knife swinging from her belt. Mabel had her

own pearl-handled revolver. The rest looked like gipsies.

 

They slid down the bank and debouched with a shout into the little

glade. Fancy entered with vim into the celebration. Not that she did

any useful work, that was not her field; she was there chiefly as a

decoration and an inspiration. She had dressed herself in khaki. Her

boots were laced high, her sombrero permitted a shower of tinted

tendrils to escape and wanton about her forehead. She found fragrant

sprays of yerba buena and wreathed them about her neck.

 

It was all new and strange to her, all delightful. She had seen the

artificial side of the town and knew the best and worst of its gaiety;

but here, in the open for almost the first time, she breathed deeply of

the primal joys of nature and was refreshed. Her curiosity was

unlimited; she played with earth and water, fire and air. She

unbuttoned the collar of her shirt-waist and turned it in, disclosing a

delicious pink hollow at her throat. She rolled up her sleeves,

displaying the dimples in her elbows. At the preparations for the

dinner she was an eager spectator, and when the meal was served, smoked

and sandy, and the bottles were opened, all traces of the fairy in her

disappeared; she was simple girl. She ate like a cannibal and ate with glee.