Jasper County Democrat, Volume 22, Number 21, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 11 June 1919 — GREEN FANCY [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

GREEN FANCY

by GEORGE BARR McCUTCEON

Author of ’’GRAUSTARK,” “THE HOLLOW OF HER HAND.” THE < PRINCE OF GRAUSTARK." ETC

DUI W

SYNOPSIS. CHAPTER I—Thomas K. Ilarnaa, wealthy New Yorker, on a walkins trip through New England, la caught In a ■term miles from his destination. At a crossroads point he meets a girl in the same plight. While they discuss the situation an automobile, sent to meet the girl, arrives and Barnes is given a lift to Hart’s tavern, while the girl is taken on to her destination, which she tells Barnes is a place called Green Fancy.

CHAPTER 11. The Flrat Wayfarer Lays His Pack Aside and Falls In With Friends The little hall In which he found himself was the "office” through which all men must pass who come as guests to Hart’s Tavern. A steep, angular staircase took up one end of the room. Set In beneath Its upper turn was the counter over which the business of the house was transacted, and behind this a man was engaged In the peaceful Occupation of smoking a corncob pipe. An open door to the right of the stairway gave entrance to a room from which came the sound of a deep, sonorous voice employed in what turned out to be a conversational solo. To the left another door led to what was (evidently the dining room. The glance that the stranger sent in that direction revealed two or three tables covered With white cloths. “Can you put me up for the night?” he inquired, advancing to the counter. “You look like a feller who’d want a room with bath,” drawled the man behind the counter, surveying the applicant from head to foot “Which we ain’t got,” he added. “Hl be satisfied to have a room with a bed,” said the other. "Sign here,” was 1 the laconic response. “Can I have supper V “Food for man and beast,” said the Other patiently. He slapped his palm upon a cracked call bell * and then looked at the fresh name on the page. ••Thomas K. Barnes, New York,” he read aloud. He eyed the newcomer 'once more. “My name is Jones——Putnam Jones. I run this place. My father an’ grandfather run it before me. Glad to meet you, Mr. Barnes. We used to have a hostler here named Barnes. What’s your idear fer footin’ it this time o’ the year?” “I do something like this every {spring. A month or six weeks of it puts me in fine shape for a vacation later on,” supplied Mr. Barnes whimsically. Mr. Jones allowed a grin to steaZ jover his seamed face. He reinserted the corncob pipe and took a couple of pulls at it. “I never been to New York, but it | must be a heavenly place for a vaca- , tlon, if a feller c’n judge by what some of my present boarders have to say about it. It’s a sort of play actor’s paradise, ain’t it?” “It is paradise to every actor whe happens to be on the road, Mr. Jones,’" i said Barnes, slipping his big pack from his shoulders and letting it slide to the floor. “Hear that feller In the taproom talkin’? Well, he is one of the leading actors in New York —in the world, for that matter. He’s been talkin' about Broadway for nearly a week now, steady.” “May I inquire what he is doing up here in the wilds?” “At present he ain’t doing anything ‘"except talk. Last week he was treddin’ the boards, as he puts it himself. Busted. Up the flue. Showed last Saturday night in Hornvllle, eighteen mile north of here, and immeglately after the performance him and his whole ■troupe started to walk back to New (York, a good four hundred mile. They 'started out the back way of the opery house ajid nobody missed ’em till next mornin’ except the sheriff, and he didn’t miss ’em till they’d got over the county line into out bailiwick. Four of ’em are still stoppin’ here just because I ain’t got the heart to turn ’em out ner the spare money to buy ’em tickets to New York. Here comes one of ’em now. Mr. Dllllngford, will you show this gentleman to room deven and carry his baggage up fer him? And maybe he’ll want a pitcher of warm water to wash and shave in.” He turned to the new guest and smiled apologetically. “We’re a little short o’ help just now, Mr. Barnes, and Mr. Ellingford has kindly consented to—-” “Mj word!” gasped Mr. Dlllingfofd, staring at the register. “Someone fromlljfte old New York? My word, sir, ym»— Won’t you have a—er — Uttle something to drink with me before your-” “He something to eat,”Jnter■mptgd Mt. Janes, sharply. “Tell Mr. •Rnrnp to step up to hia robm and take,the order.” “yyj-right- old chap—nothing easier,” said Mr. EtUHngfopd gently.' ’Just leWmfe, up thp deva ton- Mr. Barnes. We 'do ttjjs to gffi?up an appedjje. ..When •[did you Ifeave Jte*v York?’

Taking up a lighted kerosene lamp and the heavy pack, Mr. Clarence Dllllngford led the way up the stairs. He was a chubby individual of indefinite age. At a glance you would have said he was under twenty-one; a second look would have convinced you that he was nearer forty-one. Depositing Barnes’ pack on a chair in the little bedroom at the end of the hall upstairs he favored the guest with a perfectly unabashed grin. Tm not doing this to oblige old man Jones, you know. I won’t attempt to deceive you. I’m working out a dally board bill. Chuck three times a day and a bed to sleep In —that’s what I’m doing it for, so don’t get it into your bead that I applied for the job. Let me look at you. I want to get a good square peep at a man who has the means to go somewhere and yet Is boob enough to come to this goshawful place of his own free will and accord. Darn It, you look Intelligent. I don’t get you at all. What’s the matter? Are you a fugitive from justice?” Barnes laughed aloud. There was no withstanding the fellow’s sprightly Impudence. "I happen to enjoy walking,” said he. “If I enjoyed it as much as you do I’d be limping Into Harlem by this time,” said Mr. Dllllngford sadly. “But you see I'm an actor. I’m too proud to walk —■” The cracked bell on the office desk interrupted him, somewhat peremptorily. Mr. Dlllingford’s face assumed an expression of profound dignity. He lowered his yolce as he gave vent to the following: “That man Jones is the meanest human being God ever let — Yes, sir, coming, sir I” He started for the open door with surprising’alacrity. Barnes surveyed the little bedchamber. It was just what he had expected it would be. The walls were covered with a garish paper selected by one who had an eye but not a taste for color —bright pink flowers that looked more or less like chunks of a shattered watermelon spilt promiscuously over a background of pearl gray. The bedstead, bureau and washstand were offensively modern. Everything was as clean as a pin, however, and the bed looked comfortable. He stepped to the small, many-paned window and looked out into the night. The storm was at its height. In all his life he never had heard such a clatter of rain, nor a wind that shrieked so appallingly. His thoughts went quite naturally to the woman who was out there in the thick of it. He wondered how she was faring and lamented that she not In his place now and he in hers. What was she doing up In this Godforsaken country? What was the name of the place she was bound for? Green Fancy! What an odd name for a house I And what sort of house — His reflections were interrupted by the return of Mr. Dllllngford, who carried a huge pewter pitcher from which steam arose In volume. At his heels strode a tall, cadaverous person in a checked suit. Never had Barnes seen anything quite so overpowering in the way of a suit. Joseph’s coat of’many colors was no longer a vision of childhood. It was a reality. The checks were an Inch square and each cube had a narrow border of azure blue. The general tone was a dirty gray, due no doubt to age and a constitution that would not allow it to outlive its usefulness. “Meet Mr. Bacon, Mr. Barnes,” Introduced Mr. Dllllngford, going to the needless exertion of Indicating Mr. Bacon with a generous sweep of his free hand. “Our heavy leads. Mr. Montague Bacon, also of New York.” “Ham and eggs, pork tenderloin* country sausage, rump steak and spring chicken,” said Mr. Bacon in a cavernous voice, getting it over with while the list was fresh in his memory. “Fried and boiled potatoes, beans, succotash, onions, stewed tomatoes and —er —just a moment, please. Fried and boiled potatoes, beans —” “Ham and eggs, potatoes and a cupor two of coffee,” said Barnes, suppressing a dgsire to laugh. “And apple pie,” concluded the waiter triumphantly. “I knew rd get it If you gave me time. As you may have observed, my dear sir, I am not what you would call an experienced waiter. As a matter of fact, I —■” The 'bell downstairs rang violently. Mr. Bacon departed in great haste. While the traveler performed his ablutions Mr. Dllllngford, for the moment disengaged, sat upon the edge of the bed and enjoyed himself. He talked. *We were nine at the start,” said he pensively. “Gradually we were reduced to seven, not including the manager. Two as ’em escaped betore the smash. The low comedian and acter did wxnnan. Joe Buckley and his Thint .toft the old man—< mean Mr. Rushcrrtfk, the star —Lyndon Itusfierpft, you know —myself and Bacon, “OPUPy Gray, Miss Rushcroft. Miss

Hughes and a woman narfhd Bradley, seven of us. The woman named Bradley said her mother was dying in Buffalo, no the rest of na scraped together ell the money we had —nine dollars and sixty cents —and did the right thing by her. Actors are always doing darn-fool things like that. Mr. Barnes. And what do you supt>oee she did? Bhe took that money and bought two tickets to Albany, one for herself and another for the manager of the company—the lowest, meanest ornerlest white man that ever — But lam crabbing the old man’s part. You ought to her what he has to say about Mr. Manager. 1W can use words I never even heard of before. So that leaves just the four of us here, working off the two days’ board bill of Bradley and the manager. Rushcroft’s ungodly spree, and at the same time keeping our own slate clean. Miss Thackehty will no doubt make up your bed in the morning. She is temporarily a chambermaid. Cracking fine girl. too. Are you all ready? I’ll lead you to the dining room. Or would you prefer a little appetiser beforehand? The taproom is right on the way. You mustn’t call It the bar. Everybody in that little graveyard town down the roud would turn over completely If you did. Hallowed tradition, you know.” “I don’t mind having a cocktail. Will you join me?” “As a matter of fact. I’m expected to,” confessed Mr. Dllllngford. “We've been drawing quite a bit of custom to the taproom. The rubes like to sit around and listen to conversation about Broadway and Bunker HUI and Old Point Comfort and other places, and then go home and tell the neighbors that they know quite a number of stage people. Human nature, I guess. Listen! Hear that? Rushcroft reciting ‘Gunga Din.’ You can’t hear the thunder for the noise he’s making.” The descended the stairs and entered the taproom, where a dozen men were seated around the tables, all of them with ppwter mugs in front of them. Standing at the top table —that is to say, the one farthest removed from the door and commanding the attention of every creature tn the room —was the Imposing figure of Lyndon Rushcroft. He was reciting, in a sonorous voice and with tremendous fervor, the famous Kipling poem. A genial smile wiped the tragic expression from his face. He advanced upon Barnes and the beaming Mr. Dllllngford, his hand extended. “My dear fellow,” be exclaimed resoundingly, “how are you?” Cordiality boomed in his voice. “I heard you had arrived. Welcome —thricefold wel-

come!” He neglected to say that Mr. Montague Bacon, in passing a few minutes before, had leaned over and whispered behind bls hand: upstairs from New York, Mr. Rushcroft —fellow named Carnes. Quite a swell, believe me.” It was a well-placed tip, for Mr. Rushcroft had been telling the natives for days that he knew everybody worth knowing in New York. Barnes was momentarily taken aback. Then he rose to the spirit of the occasion. “Hello, Rushcroft,” he greeted, as If meeting an old-time and greatly beloved friend. “This is good. ’Pon my soul you are like a thriving date palm in the middle of an endless desert How are you?” They shook hands warmly. Mr. Dllllngford slapped the newcomer on the shoulder affectionately, familiarly, ( and shouted: “Who would have dreamed we’d run across good old Barnesy up here? By Jove, it’s marvelous!” "Friends, countrymen,” boomed Mr. Rushcroft “this Is Mr.* Barnes of New York. Not the man the book was written apout but one of the best fellows God ever put into this little world of ours. I do not recall yqur nagties, gentlemen, or I would introduce each of jou separately and dlvislbly.” Lyndon Rushcroft was a tall, saggy man of fifty. Despite his determined erectness he was inclined to sag from the shoulders down. His head, huge and gray, appeared to be much too ponderous for hlsf yielding body,' qpd yet he carried it tpanfnlly, even theatrically. The lines in his dark, seasoned face were like.furrows; his nose was large and somewhat bulbous, Jlls mouth wide and grim. Thick, black eyebrows shaded a pair of eyes in which white was no longer apparent—

It had given way to a permanent red. ▲ two-days' atubble covered his chin and cheeks. Altogether he was a singular exemplification of one's Idea of the old-time actor. Passing through the office, his ami linked In one of Barnes', Mr. Rushcroft hesitated long enough to impress upon Landlord Jones the Importance of providing his “distinguished friend, Robert W. Barnes," with the very best that the establishment afforded. Putnam Jones blinked slightly and his eyes sought the register as if to accuse or justify his memory. Then he spat copiously into the corner, a necessary preliminary to a grin. He hadn’t much use for the great Lyndon Rushcroft. His grin was sardonic. Something told him that Mr. Rushcroft was about to be liberally fed. (TO BE CONTINUED.)

“Welcome, Thricefold Welcome.”