The Honorable Peter Stirling and What People Thought of HimFord, Paul Leicester
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The Honorable Peter Stirling and What People Thought of Him
Ford, Paul Leicester
Labor movement -- Fiction; Love stories; New York (N.Y.) -- Fiction; Political fiction; Tenement houses -- Fiction
“Fie, fie, Rosebud,” cried a voice from the doorway. “You shouldn’t
speak of yourself so, even if it is the truth. Leave that to me. How
are you, Peter, old fellow? I’d apologize for keeping you waiting, but
if you’ve had Helen, there’s no occasion. Isn’t it Boileau who said
that: ‘The best thing about many a man is his wife’?”
Mrs. D’Alloi beamed, but said, “It isn’t so, Peter. He’s much better
than I.”
Watts laughed. “You’ll have to excuse this, old man. Will happen
sometimes, even in the properest of families, if one marries an angel.”
“There, you see,” said Mrs. D’Alloi. “He just spoils me, Peter.”
“And she thrives on it, doesn’t she, Peter?” said Watts. “Isn’t she
prettier even than she was in the old days?”
Mrs. D’Alloi colored with pleasure, even while saying: “Now, Watts
dear, I won’t swallow such palpable flattery. There’s one kiss for
it—Peter won’t mind—and now I know you two want to talk old times, so
I’ll leave you together. Good-bye, Peter—or rather _au revoir_—for you
must be a regular visitor now. Watts, arrange with Peter to dine with
us some day this week.”
Mrs. D’Alloi disappeared through the doorway. Peter’s pulse did not
change a beat.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
HELP.
The moment she was gone, Watts held out his hand, saying: “Here, old
man, let us shake hands again. It’s almost like going back to college
days to see my old chum. Come to the snuggery, where we shan’t be
interrupted.” They went through two rooms, to one fitted up as a
smoking-room and office. “It’s papa-in-law’s workshop. He can’t drop
his work at the bank, so he brings it home and goes on here. Sit down.
Here, take a cigar. Now, are you comfortable?”
“Yes.”
“_Maintenant_, I suppose you want to know why I wrote you to come so
quickly?”
“Yes.”
“Well, the truth of it is, I’m in an awful mess. Yesterday I was so
desperate I thought I should blow my brains out. I went round to the
club to see if I couldn’t forget or drown my trouble, just as sick as a
man could be. Fellows talking. First thing I heard was your name. ‘Just
won a great case.’ ‘One of the best lawyers in New York.’ Thinks I to
myself, ‘That’s a special providence.’ Peter always was the fellow to
pull me through my college scrapes. I’ll write him.’ Did it, and played
billiards for the rest of the evening, secure in the belief that you
would come to my help, just as you used to.”
“Tell me what it is?”
“Even that isn’t easy, chum. It’s a devilish hard thing to tell even to
you.”
“Is it money trou—?”
“No, no!” Watts interrupted. “It isn’t that. The truth is I’ve a great
deal more money than is good for me, and apparently always shall have.
I wish it were only that!”
“How can I help you?” began Peter.
“I knew you would,” cried Watts, joyfully. “Just the same old reliable
you always were. Here. Draw up nearer. That’s it. Now then, here goes.
I shan’t mind if you are shocked at first. Be as hard on me as you
like.”
“Well?”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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