The Essential Winston Churchill Collection. Winston Churchill
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Where were you?"
"Where did you look?" answered Cynthia, composedly, withdrawing her hand.
"Everywhere," said Bob, "up and down the street, all through the hotel. I asked Lem Hallowell, and he didn't know where you were. I only got here last night myself."
"I was in the meeting-house," said Cynthia.
"The meeting-house!" he echoed. "You don't mean to tell me that you listened to that silly speech of Sutton's?"
This remark, delivered in all earnestness, was the signal for uproarious laughter from Mr. Dodd and others sitting near by, attending earnestly to the conversation.
Cynthia bit her lip.
"Yes, I did," she said; "but I'm sorry now."
"I should think you would be," said Bob; "Sutton's a silly, pompous old fool. I had to sit through dinner with him. I believe I could represent the district better myself."
"By gosh!" exploded Mr. Dodd, "I believe you could!"
But Bob paid no attention to him. He was looking at Cynthia.
"Cynthia, you've grown up since I saw you," he said. "How's Uncle Jethro.
"He's well--thanks," said Cynthia, and now she was striving to put down a smile.
"Still running the state?" said Bob. "You tell him I think he ought to muzzle Sutton. What did he send him down to Washington for?"
"I don't know," said Cynthia.
"What are you going to do after the game?" Bob demanded.
"I'm going home of course," said Cynthia.
His face fell.
"Can't you come to the house for supper and stay for the fireworks?" he begged pleadingly. "We'd be mighty glad to have your friend, too."
Cynthia introduced her escort.
"It's very good of you, Bob," she said, with that New England demureness which at times became her so well, "but we couldn't possibly do it. And then I don't like Mr. Sutton."
"Oh, hang him!" exclaimed Bob. He took a step nearer to her. "Won't you stay this once? I have to go West in the morning."
"I think you are very lucky," said Cynthia.
Bob scanned her face searchingly, and his own fell.
"Lucky!" he cried, "I think it's the worst thing that ever happened to me. My father's so hard-headed when he gets his mind set--he's making me do it. He wants me to see the railroads and the country, so I've got to go with the Duncans. I wanted to stay--" He checked himself, "I think it's a blamed nuisance."
"So do I," said a voice behind him.
It was not the first time that Mr. Somers Duncan had spoken, but Bob either had not heard him or pretended not to. Mr. Duncan's freckled face smiled at them from the top of the railing, his eyes were on Cynthia's face, and he had been listening eagerly. Mr. Duncan's chief characteristic, beyond his freckles, was his eagerness--a quality probably amounting to keenness.
"Hello," said Bob, turning impatiently, "I might have known you couldn't keep away. You're the cause of all my troubles--you and your father's private car."
Somers became apologetic.
"It isn't my fault," he said; "I'm sure I hate going as much as you do. It's spoiled my summer, too."
Then he coughed and looked at Cynthia.
"Well," said Bob, "I suppose I'll have to introduce you. This," he added, dragging his friend over the railing, "is Mr. Somers Duncan."
"I'm awfully glad to meet you, Miss. Wetherell," said Somers, fervently; "to tell you the truth, I thought he was just making up yarns."
"Yarns?" repeated Cynthia, with a look that set Mr. Duncan floundering.
"Why, yes," he stammered. "Worthy said that you were up here, but I thought he was crazy the way he talked--I didn't think--"
"Think what?" inquired Cynthia, but she flushed a little.
"Oh, rot, Somers!" said Bob, blushing furiously under his tan; "you ought never to go near a woman--you're the darndest fool with 'em I ever saw."
This time even the painter laughed outright, and yet he was a little sorrowful, too, because he could not be even as these youths. But Cynthia sat serene, the eternal feminine of all the ages, and it is no wonder that Bob Worthington was baffled as he looked at her. He lapsed into an awkwardness quite as bad as that of his friend.
"I hope you enjoyed the game," he said at last, with a formality that was not at all characteristic.
Cynthia did not seem to think it worth while to answer this, so the painter tried to help him out.
"That was a fine stop you made, Mr. Worthington," he said; "wasn't it, Cynthia?"
"Everybody seemed to think so," answered Cynthia, cruelly; "but if I were a man and had hands like that" (Bob thrust them in his pockets), "I believe I could stop a ball, too."
Somers laughed uproariously.
"Good-by," said Bob, with uneasy abruptness, "I've got to go into the field now. When can I see you?"
"When you get back from the West--perhaps," said Cynthia.
"Oh," cried Bob (they were calling him), "I must see you to-night!" He vaulted over the railing and turned. "I'll come back here right after the game," he said; "there's only one more inning."
"We'll come back right after the game," repeated Mr. Duncan.
Bob shot one look at him,--of which Mr. Duncan seemed blissfully unconscious,--and stalked off abruptly to second base.
The artist sat pensive for a few moments, wondering at the ways of women, his sympathies unaccountably enlisted in behalf of Mr. Worthington.
"Weren't you a little hard on him?" he said.
For answer Cynthia got to her feet.
"I think we ought to be going home," she said.
"Going home!" he ejaculated in amazement.
"I promised Uncle Jethro I'd be there for supper," and she led the way out of the grand stand.
So they drove back to Coniston through the level evening light, and when they came to Ephraim Prescott's harness shop the old soldier waved at them cheerily from under the big flag which he had hung out in honor of the day. The flag was silk, and incidentally Ephraim's most valued possession. Then they drew up before the tannery house, and Cynthia leaped out of the buggy and held out her hand to the painter with a smile.
"It was very good of you to take me," she said.
Jethro Bass, rugged, uncouth, in rawhide boots and swallowtail and coonskin cap, came down from the porch to welcome her, and she ran toward him with an eagerness that started the painter to wondering afresh over the contrasts of life. What, he asked himself, had Fate in store for Cynthia Wetherell?
CHAPTER III
"H-have a good time, Cynthy?" said