He took down the receiver and got the connection.

"That you--dear?" David managed a casual voice with difficulty.

"Yes, David," came in a voice that fairly radiated across the city. "I

only wanted to ask how it goes."

"Fine--with a rip! But you never can tell--about anything. I'm a

Presbyterian and I'll die in doubt of my election. I'm learning not to

count on--things." His voice carried a mournful note that utterly belied

his radiant face. David was enjoying himself to almost the mortal limit!

"David," there was a perceptible pause--"you--there is one thing you can

always count on--isn't there--_me_?" The voice was very gallant but also

slightly palpitating. David almost lost his head but hung on tight and

came up right side.

"Some," he answered, which reply, in the light of an extremely modern use

of the word combined with the legitimate, was calculated to bring

conclusion. Then he hurried another offering on to the wire.

"How long are you going to be at home?" he asked--another dastardly

tantalization.

"I--I don't know exactly," she parried quickly. "Why?" and this from

Phoebe who had always granted interviews like a queen gives jewels! David

somewhere found the courage to lay a firm hand on himself. With just a

few more blows the citadel was his! His own heart writhed and the

uncertainty made him quake internally.

"I wish I could come over, but there are two committees waiting in the

other room for me. Do you--" a clash and buzz hummed over the wire into

the receiver. There was a jangle and tangle and a rough man's voice cut

in with, "Working on the wires, hang up, please," and David limply hung

up the receiver and collapsed in solitude, for his committees had been

evoked out of thin air.

His state of mind was positively abject. His years-old tenderness welled

up in his heart and flooded to his eyes--the dash and the pluck of her!

He reached for his hat, then hesitated; it was election eve and in two

hours he was due to address the congregation of griddle-cake discontents

on how to make men vote like ladies.

A call boy hurried in by way of a fortunate distraction and handed in a

budget of papers. David spread them out before him. They were from Susie

Carrie of the strong brush and the Civic Improvement League, containing

Sketches and specifications for the drinking fountains already pledged,

and a request for an early institution of legislation on the play-ground

proposition. Such a small thing as an uncertain election failed to

daunt the artistic fervor of Susie Carrie's fertile brain or to deter her

from making demands, however premature, on David the sympathetic.

And David Kildare dropped his head on the papers and groaned. The

Vision of a life-work rose up and menaced him and the words "sweat of his

brow" for the first time took on a concrete meaning. Such a good, old,

care-free existence he was losing, and--he seized his hat and fled

to the refreshment of bath, food and fresh raiment.




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