The Greatest Works of Earl Derr Biggers (Illustrated Edition). Earl Derr Biggers
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Eden," he called. "Your father's on the wire."
"Dad's up early," remarked Eden, hurrying to join him.
"I called him," said Madden. "I've had enough delay."
Reaching the telephone, Bob Eden took up the receiver. "Hello, dad. I can talk freely this morning. I want to tell you everything's all right down here. Mr. Madden? Yes—he's fine—standing right beside me now. And he's in a tearing hurry for that necklace."
"Very well—we'll get it to him at once," the elder Eden said. Bob Eden sighed with relief. His telegram had arrived.
"Ask him to get it off today," Madden commanded.
"Mr. Madden wants to know if it can start today," the boy said.
"Impossible," replied the jeweler. "I haven't got it."
"Not today," Bob Eden said to Madden. "He hasn't got—"
"I heard him," roared Madden. "Here—give me that phone. Look here, Eden—what do you mean you haven't got it?"
Bob Eden could hear his father's replies. "Ah—Mr. Madden—how are you? The pearls were in a quite disreputable condition—I couldn't possibly let them go as they were. So I'm having them cleaned—they're with another firm—"
"Just a minute, Eden," bellowed the millionaire. "I want to ask you something—can you understand the English language, or can't you? Keep still—I'll talk. I told you I wanted the pearls now—at once—pronto—what the devil language do you speak? I don't give a hang about having them cleaned. Good lord, I thought you understood."
"So sorry," responded Bob Eden's gentle father. "I'll get them in the morning, and they'll start tomorrow night."
"Yeah—that means Tuesday evening at the ranch. Eden, you make me sick. I've a good mind to call the whole thing off—" Madden paused, and Bob Eden held his breath. "However, if you promise the pearls will start tomorrow sure—"
"I give you my word," said the jeweler. "They will start tomorrow at the very latest."
"All right. I'll have to wait, I suppose. But this is the last time I deal with you, my friend. I'll be on the lookout for your man on Tuesday. Good-bye."
In a towering rage, Madden hung up. His ill-humor continued through breakfast, and Eden's gay attempts at conversation fell on barren ground. After the meal was finished, Thorn took the little car and disappeared down the road. Bob Eden loafed expectantly about the front yard.
Much sooner than he had dared to hope, his vigil was ended. Paula Wendell, fresh and lovely as the California morning, drove up in her smart roadster and waited outside the barbed-wire fence.
"Hello," she said. "Jump in. You act as though you were glad to see me."
"Glad! Lady, you're a life-saver. Relations are sort of strained this morning at the old homestead. You'll find it hard to believe, but P.J. Madden doesn't love me."
She stepped on the gas. "The man's mad," she laughed.
"I'll say he's mad. Ever eat breakfast with a rattlesnake that's had bad news?"
"Not yet. The company at the Oasis is mixed, but not so mixed as that. Well, what do you think of the view this morning? Ever see such coloring before?"
"Never. And it's not out of a drug store, either."
"I'm talking about the desert. Look at those snowcapped peaks."
"Lovely. But if you don't mind, I prefer to look closer. No doubt he's told you you're beautiful."
"Who?"
"Wilbur, your fiance."
"His name is Jack. Don't jump on a good man when he's down."
"Of course he's a good man, or you wouldn't have picked him." They plowed along the sandy road. "But even so—look here, lady. Listen to a man of the world. Marriage is the last resort of feeble minds."
"Think so?"
"I know it. Oh, I've given the matter some thought. I've had to. There's my own case. Now and then I've met a girl whose eyes said, 'Well, I might.' But I've been cautious. Hold fast, my lad—that's my motto."
"And you've held fast?"
"You bet. Glad of it, too. I'm free. I'm having a swell time. When evening comes, and the air's full of zip and zowie, and the lights flicker round Union Square, I just reach for my hat. And who says, in a gentle patient voice, 'Where are you going, my dear? I'll go with you.'"
"Nobody."
"Not a living soul. It's grand. And you—your case is just like mine. Of course there are millions of girls who have nothing better to do than marriage. All right for them. But you—why—you've got a wonderful job. The desert, the hills, the canyons—and you're willing to give all that up for a gas-range in the rear room of an apartment."
"Perhaps we can afford a maid."
"Lots of people can—but where to get one nowadays? I'm warning you—think it over well. You're having a great time now—that will end with marriage. Mending Wilbur's socks—"
"I tell you his name is Jack."
"What of it? He'll be just as hard on the socks. I hate to think of a girl like you, tied down somewhere—"
"There's a lot in what you say," Paula Wendell admitted.
"I've only scratched the surface," Eden assured her.
The girl steered her car off the road through an open gate. Eden saw a huge, rambling ranch house surrounded by a group of tiny cottages. "Here we are at Doctor Whitcomb's," remarked Paula Wendell. "Wonderful person, the doctor. I want you two to meet."
She led the way through a screen door into a large living-room, not so beautifully furnished as Madden's, but bespeaking even greater comfort. A gray-haired woman was rocking contentedly near a window. Her face was kindly, her eyes calm and comforting. "Hello, Doctor," said the girl. "I've brought some one to call on you."
The woman rose, and her smile seemed to fill the room. "Hello, young man," she said, and took Bob Eden's hand.
"You—you're the doctor," he stammered.
"Sure am," the woman replied. "But you don't need me. You're all right."
"So are you," he answered. "I can see that."
"Fifty-five years old," returned the doctor, "but I can still get a kick out of that kind of talk from a nice young man. Sit down. The place is yours. Where are you staying?"
"I'm down the road, at Madden's."
"Oh yes—I heard he was here. Not much of a neighbor, this P.J. Madden. I've called on him occasionally, but he's never come to see me. Stand-offish—and that sort of thing doesn't go on the desert. We're all friends here."
"You've been a friend to a good many," said Paula Wendell.
"Why not?" shrugged Doctor Whitcomb. "What's life for, if not to help one another? I've done my best—I only wish it had been more."
Bob Eden felt suddenly humble in this woman's presence.
"Come on—I'll show you round my place," invited the doctor. "I've made the desert bloom—put that on my tombstone. You should have seen this neighborhood when I came. Just a rifle and a cat—that's all I had at first. And the cat wouldn't stay. My first house here I built with my own hands. Five miles to Eldorado—I walked in and back every day. Mr. Ford hadn't been heard of then."
She led the way into the yard, in and out among the little cottages. Tired faces brightened at her approach, weary eyes gleamed with sudden hope.
"They've come to her from all over the country," Paula Wendell said. "Broken-hearted, sick, discouraged. And she's given them new life—"
"Nonsense," cried the doctor. "I've just been friendly. It's a pretty hard world. Being friendly—that works wonders."
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