Luckily for Remsens peace of mind there came a diversion in the guise of a reunion of the Gentle Riders of the city. There were not many of them perhaps a score and there was wassail and things to eat, and speeches and the Spaniard was bearded again in recapitulation. And when daylight threatened them the survivors prepared to depart. But some remained upon the battlefield. One of these was Trooper ORoon, who was not seasoned to potent liquids. His legs declined to fulfil the obligations they had sworn to the police department.
Im stewed, Remsen, said ORoon to his friend. Why do they build hotels that go round and round like catherine wheels[291]? Theyll take away my shield and break me. I can think and talk con-con-consec-sec-secutively, but I s-s-stammer with my feet. Ive got to go on duty in three hours. The jig is up, Remsen. The jig is up, I tell you.
Look at me, said Remsen, who was his smiling self, pointing to his own face; whom do you see here?
Goo fellow, said ORoon, dizzily, Goo old Remsen.
Not so, said Remsen. You see Mounted Policeman ORoon. Look at your face no; you cant do that without a glass but look at mine, and think of yours. How much alike are we? As two French table dhóte dinners. With your badge, on your horse, in your uniform, will I charm nurse-maids and prevent the grass from growing under peoples feet in the Park this day. I will have your badge and your honor, besides having the jolliest lark Ive been blessed with since we licked Spain.
Promptly on time the counterfeit presentment of Mounted Policeman ORoon single-footed into the Park on his chestnut steed. In a uniform two men who are unlike will look alike; two who somewhat resemble each other in feature and figure will appear as twin brothers. So Remsen trotted down the bridle paths, enjoying himself hugely, so few real pleasures do ten-millionaires have.
Along the driveway in the early morning spun a victoria[292] drawn by a pair of fiery bays. There was something foreign about the affair, for the Park is rarely used in the morning except by unimportant people who love to be healthy, poor and wise. In the vehicle sat an old gentleman with snowy side-whiskers and a Scotch plaid cap which could not be worn while driving except by a personage. At his side sat the lady of Remsens heart the lady who looked like pomegranate blossoms and the gibbous moon.
Remsen met them coming. At the instant of their passing her eyes looked into his, and but for the ever cowards heart of a true lover he could have sworn that she flushed a faint pink. He trotted on for twenty yards, and then wheeled his horse at the sound of runaway hoofs. The bays had bolted.
Remsen sent his chestnut after the victoria like a shot. There was work cut out for the impersonator of Policeman ORoon. The chestnut ranged alongside the off bay thirty seconds after the chase began, rolled his eye back at Remsen, and said in the only manner open to policemens horses:
Well, you duffer, are you going to do your share? Youre not ORoon, but it seems to me if youd lean to the right you could reach the reins of that foolish slow-running bay ah! youre all right; ORoon couldnt have done it more neatly!
The runaway team was tugged to an inglorious halt by Remsens tough muscles. The driver released his hands from the wrapped reins, jumped from his seat and stood at the heads of the team. The chestnut, approving his new rider, danced and pranced, reviling equinely the subdued bays. Remsen, lingering, was dimly conscious of a vague, impossible, unnecessary old gentleman in a Scotch cap who talked incessantly about something. And he was acutely conscious of a pair of violet eyes that would have drawn Saint Pyrites from his iron pillar or whatever the allusion is and of the ladys smile and look a little frightened, but a look that, with the ever coward heart of a true lover, he could not yet construe. They were asking his name and bestowing upon him wellbred thanks for his heroic deed, and the Scotch cap was especially babbling and insistent. But the eloquent appeal was in the eyes of the lady.
A little thrill of satisfaction ran through Remsen, because he had a name to give which, without undue pride, was worthy of being spoken in high places, and a small fortune which, with due pride, he could leave at his end without disgrace.
He opened his lips to speak and closed them again.
Who was he? Mounted Policeman ORoon. The badge and the honor of his comrade were in his hands. If Ellsworth Remsen, ten-millionaire and Knickerbocker, had just rescued pomegranate blossoms and Scotch cap from possible death, where was Policeman ORoon? Off his beat, exposed, disgraced, discharged. Love had come, but before that there had been something that demanded precedence the fellowship of men on battlefields fighting an alien foe.
Remsen touched his cap, looked between the chestnuts ears, and took refuge in vernacularity.
Dont mention it, he said stolidly. We policemen are paid to do these things. Its our duty.
And he rode away rode away cursing noblesse oblige, but knowing he could never have done anything else.
At the end of the day Remsen sent the chestnut to his stable and went to ORoons room. The policeman was again a well set up, affable, cool young man who sat by the window smoking cigars.
I wish you and the rest of the police force and all badges, horses, brass buttons and men who cant drink two glasses of brut[293] without getting upset were at the devil, said Remsen feelingly.
ORoon smiled with evident satisfaction.
Good old Remsen, he said, affably, I know all about it. They trailed me down and cornered me here two hours ago. There was a little row at home, you know, and I cut sticks just to show them. I dont believe I told you that my Governor[294] was the Earl of Ardsley. Funny you should bob against them in the Park. If you damaged that horse of mine Ill never forgive you. Im going to buy him and take him back with me. Oh, yes, and I think my sister Lady Angela, you know wants particularly for you to come up to the hotel with me this evening. Didnt lose my badge, did you, Remsen? Ive got to turn that in at Headquarters when I resign.
Brickdust Row
Blinker was displeased. A man of less culture and poise and wealth would have sworn. But Blinker always remembered that he was a gentleman a thing that no gentleman should do. So he merely looked bored and sardonic while he rode in a hansom to the center of disturbance, which was the Broadway office of Lawyer Oldport, who was agent for the Blinker estate.
I dont see, said Blinker, why I should be always signing confounded papers. I am packed, and was to have left for the North Woods this morning. Now I must wait until to-morrow morning. I hate night trains. My best razors are, of course, at the bottom of some unidentifiable trunk. It is a plot to drive me to bay rum and a monologueing, thumb-handed barber. Give me a pen that doesnt scratch. I hate pens that scratch.
Sit down, said double-chinned, gray Lawyer Oldport. The worst has not been told you. Oh, the hardships of the rich! The papers are not yet ready to sign. They will be laid before you to-morrow at eleven. You will miss another day. Twice shall the barber tweak the helpless nose of a Blinker. Be thankful that your sorrows do not embrace a haircut.
If, said Blinker, rising, the act did not involve more signing of papers I would take my business out of your hands at once. Give me a cigar, please.
If, said Lawyer Oldport, I had cared to see an old friends son gulped down at one mouthful by sharks I would have ordered you to take it away long ago. Now, lets quit fooling, Alexander. Besides the grinding task of signing your name some thirty times to-morrow, I must impose upon you the consideration of a matter of business of business, and I may say humanity or right. I spoke to you about this five years ago, but you would not listen you were in a hurry for a coaching trip, I think. The subject has come up again. The property
Oh, property! interrupted Blinker. Dear Mr. Oldport, I think you mentioned to-morrow. Lets have it all at one dose to-morrow signatures and property and snappy rubber bands and that smelly sealing-wax and all. Have luncheon with me? Well, Ill try to remember to drop in at eleven to-morrow. Morning.
The Blinker wealth was in lands, tenements and hereditaments, as the legal phrase goes. Lawyer Oldport had once taken Alexander in his little pulmonary gasoline runabout to see the many buildings and rows of buildings that he owned in the city. For Alexander was sole heir. They had amused Blinker very much. The houses looked so incapable of producing the big sums of money that Lawyer Oldport kept piling up in banks for him to spend.
In the evening Blinker went to one of his clubs, intending to dine. Nobody was there except some old fogies playing whist who spoke to him with grave politeness and glared at him with savage contempt. Everybody was out of town. But here he was kept in like a schoolboy to write his name over and over on pieces of paper. His wounds were deep.
Blinker turned his back on the fogies, and said to the club steward who had come forward with some nonsense about cold fresh salmon roe:
Symons, Im going to Coney Island. He said it as one might say: Alls off; Im going to jump into the river.
The joke pleased Symons. He laughed within a sixteenth of a note of the audibility permitted by the laws governing employees.
Certainly, sir, he tittered. Of course, sir, I think I can see you at Coney, Mr. Blinker.
Blinker got a pager and looked up the movements of Sunday steamboats. Then he found a cab at the first corner and drove to a North River pier. He stood in line, as democratic as you or I, and bought a ticket, and was trampled upon and shoved forward until, at last, he found himself on the upper deck of the boat staring brazenly at a girl who sat alone upon a camp stool. But Blinker did not intend to be brazen; the girl was so wonderfully good looking that he forgot for one minute that he was the prince incog[295], and behaved just as he did in society.