The Rose Dawn. Stewart Edward White

Bill. Somebody once said he looked pneumatic."

      "Why?"

      "Looks sort of as if he had been blowed up with an air pump."

      "That, also, is a jest," stated Boyd.

      Kenneth laughed joyously.

      "I wonder if he'd collapse if you stuck a pin in him?"

      "I reckon something would collapse," agreed the stranger drily. "You from the East, I take it. Out for long?"

      "Yes. I don't know. Depends on father," said Kenneth, indicating Mr. Boyd, who had by now strolled away with the banker.

      "Old man sick, eh?"

      "He's here for his health," admitted Kenneth.

      The stranger, who was long and lank and solemn, produced a match, carefully whittled it to a point and thrust it in his mouth. He did this simple act with such a purposeful air of deliberation that Kenneth found himself watching with interest and in silence.

      "My name's Paige, Jim Paige," said that individual; then: "I run the main harness shop in this place—carved leather, silver work, all that stuff."

      "My name is Boyd," reciprocated Kenneth. "I don't run anything."

      Paige grinned appreciatively.

      "Know anybody round here?"

      "Not a soul. We've only been here a week."

      "A week! And don't know nobody!" Paige cast a quizzical side glance. "And you don't look extra bashful, either. Might know you were from the East."

      "Have you ever been East?" countered Kenneth.

      "Yes, once."

      ​"Like it?"

      "No."

      "What was the matter?"

      "Well, I'll tell you," drawled Paige, with an air of great privacy. "Back East when you don't do nothing, you feel guilty: but out here when you don't do nothing, you don't give a damn. But look a here: you've got to know some of the little she-devils we raise around here, a young fellow like you."

      He seized Kenneth firmly above the elbow, and, before that young man knew what was up, propelled him to a group of young people giggling consumedly after the fashion of the very young.

      "Hey, you, Dora. Look here; I want you to meet up with Mr. Boyd of the effete East. He's been here a week and don't know anybody and seemingly hasn't got spunk enough to get acquainted."

      He surveyed the group a tolerant moment, then sauntered away, his lank figure moving loosely in his clothes, the sharpened match in the corner of his mouth, his eyes wandering lazily and humorously from group to group. Kenneth, rooted to the spot, blushing to the ears, found himself facing a laughing mischievous group of young people. He stuttered something about intrusion, his mind murderously pursuing the departing Jim Paige. There could be no doubt that these were of the town's best—and to be thrust in this way by a harness maker——

      The laughing mischievous girl addressed as Dora broke in on his agony.

      "You must not mind old Jim Paige Mr. Boyd," she was saying. "He brought us all up, fairly, and taught us to ride and even to walk, I do believe. My name is Dora Stanley. We are truly glad to meet you. Look about you, if you don't believe it. Count us. Eight girls and two men——" and then, having by this chatter given him time to recover his self-possession, Miss Stanley presented him more formally to the members of the group.

      In the meantime the Colonel continued to greet an unending procession of his guests. They filed before him singly, in groups, in droves. There were many prominent in the life of the place ​who lingered importantly; there were many plainly dressed, awkward farmers and their wives, labouring men, Mexicans who uttered their greetings and hurried past, a little uncomfortable until they had lost themselves in the crowd of their own kind at the barbecue grounds. The Colonel knew them all by name, and he greeted each and every one of them with a genuine and cordial enthusiasm. With each he could exchange no more than a word; but he was really glad to see them, and they went on with little warm spots in their breasts. One can hardly catalogue over the notables of that day as they filed past, important as some of them now loom in the light of tradition and legend. Perhaps we should not omit the poet, Snowden Delmore, a tall, slender, hairless man with fine cut, pale features and exquisite long pale fingers. He took obvious moral platitude and cast them in sonnet form with Greek imagery and occasional poetic sounding words like thalissa that people had to look up. This was all very serious with him; and he was the centre of a group. In contrast came Doctor Wallace, the best physician, who was short and round and coarse and blunt fingered and blunt speeched. With him, just to make the contrast complete, was Judge Crosby, a tall, white, sarcastic, ultra-polite individual in a frock coat. These two were great cronies, and very canny. After paying their respects to the Colonel, they proceeded at once to the punch bowl, the contents of which they sampled cautiously.

      "Belly wash," judged Doctor Wallace.

      "Intended for the consumption of the ladies," agreed Judge Crosby.

      "Well, Colonel Dick knows a heap better than that," the Doctor planted his thick square legs wide apart and looked about him. "I see Sing Toy making signals," he said. "Come on."

      The Chinaman was standing at the side steps to the porch where he could keep an eye on the punch bowl.

      "You come in. Miss heap muchee fun," he commanded the Doctor, who was a favourite of his.

      "All right, Toy, you old rascal. How's your gizzard?"

      "No hab, doctor. Gizzard velly good," replied the oriental without expression.

      ​The doctor chuckled vastly and stumped up the steps and into the dining room.

      "Will you look at this lot of hoary old highbinders!" he cried.

      The little room was filled with men. The selection of the company was Sing Toy's, not the Colonel's. Therefore no one was there who had not fine raiment, respectability, an appreciable bank account and years of discretion. Your Chinaman is conventional. Hilarity there was, but not noisy hilarity. Only thin board and batten intervened between them and wives. On the table were bourbon and rye whisky.

      Outside the guests had nearly all arrived. Mrs. Peyton had disappeared in the house in pursuit of some final directions or arrangements. The Colonel for the moment stood alone, looking pleasedly around the groups on his green lawn and under his green trees. His eyes lighted with especial pleasure at the sight of two latecomers, and he deserted his post to meet them as they came down the drive.

      "Brainerd, my boy, I am so glad to see you here. The day would not have been complete without you. It was good of you to come after all; and to bring my Puss. How is she?"

      "Hate a crowd," returned Brainerd. "Don't know why I came. Not going to stay long."

      He was a long, loose-jointed man, slow moving, cool in manner, with cool gray eyes a little tired and a little sad, a ragged, chewed-looking moustache, and with long, lean brown hands. A round spot of colour burned high on his cheekbones. His expression was sardonic and his manner bristly in a slow, wearied fashion. He was dressed in loose rough tweeds that looked old but of respectable past.

      The individual referred to by the Colonel as Puss, however, seemed informed with all the vitality missed in the other. She was at first glance a very large child of twelve or thirteen but a second inspection left the observer a little puzzled. Her dress was short and her long slim legs had few curves of maturity: she wore the frock of a child with a bright coloured Roman sash; her tumbled hair was tied with a ribbon. But her poise was that almost of a grown woman, and she carried with her a calm ​distinction difficult to define. It was perhaps an atmosphere of simplicity and freedom from the childhood conventions usually taught little girls. Or perhaps it was only the intense vitality that seemed to emanate from her. Her long slim body radiated it, each individual fine-spun hair on her tumbled head seemed to stand out from its fellows as a charged conductor,