# Peggy-in-the-Rain/Chapter 20

XX
HE Siren reached Newport in due time and the party scattered, Mrs. Morrill and Leona going to the Berkshires for a visit and Peter, intensely miserable, remaining for a while with Gordon. There was a good deal of gayety that summer and the two men took their parts, neither, however, having much heart for them. Gordon played polo twice, but being by no means in top form, gave it up, much to Mrs. Ames's relief. Since the reorganization of the Central and Western directorate the affairs of the road had been making steady demands on his time and he had plunged into them very gladly, gaining as time went by both executive ability and enthusiasm. There was much to learn and he was doing his best to learn it. The Central and Western was his business, his life's interest, he decided, and he meant to learn his business thoroughly. And he meant to run it honestly. Lovering still shook ​his head over the, in his judgment, impractical theories advanced by Gordon, but, shorn of his former despotic power, he could do no more. The new directors were more or less heartily in accord with Gordon's views, and he was able to go about the rehabilitation of the road unrestricted. The last of August he went to Chicago and met the division heads in conference. They had never seen the president and were not predisposed in his favor, but, although, he was still ignorant of the practical details of traffic and transportation, a fact which he cheerfully acknowledged, his enthusiasm, frank desire to learn and a certain personal magnetism won them. On that trip Gordon settled a long-standing dispute with the Brotherhood of Locomotive Engineers, and, as a result, a slight increase in wages was announced effective all over the system on September first. The general manager of a little jerk-water road in the Southwest who, in five years, had changed a line of rusty rails into a dividend-payer, was bought over to the Central and Western and given the office of Assistant to the President. The general manager, proving himself out of sympathy with the road's new policy, was superseded and minor ​changes in the traffic department followed. A publicity bureau was placed in charge of a practical advertising man with headquarters in Chicago, and the road's new slogan, evolved by Gordon, "The One Best Road—C. and W.," began to placard the country.
Peter went on to the Berkshires the last of August and a week later Gordon followed him for a few days' stay. It was then that Gordon and Leona, in secret council, decided on a career for the unsuspecting Peter. Peter was to be elected a vice-president of the C. and W. Once in office, Leona declared calmly, she would see that he earned his salary. When they told Peter he grinned amiably.
"Don't know a thing about it, Gordon," he said, "but I'm willing to learn. I suppose a vice-president has his own private car; what?"
Peter and Leona were married at St. Thomas's early in October. Gordon, as best man, sustained Peter through the trying ordeal and saw them off on the steamer afterwards. Peter's grin was broader than ever. Gordon declared later that it was visible long after the Kaiser Wilhelm was hull-down on the horizon. On the steamer Leona ​kissed Gordon good-by, with Peter's entire approbation. "Dear Gordon," she murmured with a rather tearful smile. Halfway down the gangway he turned to wave them a final adieu. Peter shouted an absurd message of some sort. Leona only waved to him, but the look in her eyes stayed with him all the rest of the day.
"I wonder if she lied," he said to himself once.
The leave-taking left him depressed for several days, and he hailed his Western trip with genuine relief. He went alone, save for the presence of his secretary and a valet, and was gone just over a fortnight. In that time he covered every mile of C. and W. track and talked with hundreds of subordinates from division superintendents to track walkers. He ended his trip at Chicago, reaching there at dusk of a warm Indian summer day. Tired out but thoroughly satisfied with the results of his fortnight's labors, he left his car with a sense of relief and was driven to a hotel on the lake front. His rooms were already reserved, and, leaving the task of registering to his secretary, Gordon turned at once to the elevator, hoping that, by avoiding the desk, he might escape running into acquaintances. That was not to be, ​however, for while he was still waiting an elevator door rolled open and out stepped the Golden Widow, a dazzling apparition of black net and white shoulders and bediamonded hair.
"My dear Mr. Ames! Who'd ever thought of finding you here?"
Gordon bowed over a plump gloved hand.
"I've been wondering why, myself, until this moment. One needn't ask after your health, Fair Lady."
The Widow gave a soft shriek of comic alarm. "Don't tell me I'm stouter than when you saw me last," she begged.
"Your charms have visibly increased, but not in that way, I'm sure," he answered gravely. "Are you staying in Chicago?"
"Oh, dear, no! One never stays in Chicago; one merely passes through. I am a bird of passage, Mr. Ames."
"I should have said a bird of paradise," with a glance at the aigrette in her hair.
"You say such nice things," she sighed. Then, with a frown: "But I ought to be cross with you. You didn't treat me very nicely at Aiken, Mr. Ames."
​"Really?" he asked concernedly. "In what way did I err?"
"Oh, your sins were of omission, sir. You never once made love to me."
"I never dared, Fair Lady. I adored you in hopeless silence. You were always surrounded by Peter Waring."
She made a face. "Peter! A nice admirer he proved! As soon as my back was turned he scuttled off and got himself married! I suppose you were at the wedding? But, of course, you were! I remember now; you were his best man, weren't you? Was it a pretty wedding? I sent a present, but I couldn't be there. I forget what I sent, but I remember it was something very much nicer than he deserved. I was in Switzerland at the time. Or was it Trouville? Really, I ran around so this summer I've quite forgotten. It was a long way from St. Thomas's, though. Wasn't it a surprise to you, his marrying Leona Morrill?"
"A most agreeable one. I've always been very fond of Miss Morrill."
The widow's artistically penciled brows went up in polite disbelief. "Well, now that she's married ​your best friend, I think you're wise in forgetting and forgiving. Personally, I never could see Leona. Considering what very new people they are I think her airs are insufferable. But I must go. Have you seen a very large, fat man with a lovely bald head roaming around anywhere?"
"Having been in Chicago quite half an hour, he replied seriously, "I've seen some three or four thousand large, fat men. Large, fat men seem to be the principal industry in Chicago."
She rapped him playfully with her fan. "How we New Yorkers do love to 'knock' poor Chicago, don't we?"
"It's the breath of life to us," he replied. "May I ask whether the gentleman you describe so—so seductively is a new conquest. Fair Lady?"
"Conquest indeed! Nobody ever looks at me any more!"
"From discretion, not choice."
The widow bridled and again brought her fan into use coquettishly. "The gentleman is Mr. Audel. Do you know him? He's quite charming, really, I ran across him at Berne, I think it was, and quite by accident we came back together on the Lusitania."
​"The scheming rascal!"
"But tell me what you're doing here, Mr. Ames. Are you here for long?"
"Only passing through," he replied with a smile. "I leave for New York to-morrow."
"Oh, so soon?" she said disappointedly. "I hoped you'd have time to be a little bit nice to me. What about this evening? Couldn't you dine with us? Mr. Audel would be so pleased."
"Not this evening, thank you. I'm dead tired. Just got in from a two weeks' swing over the road. May I look you up to-morrow forenoon?"
"Do! My suite is 208. Don't forget!"
"I live for to-morrow!"
"You're a good-for-nothing blarnier," she laughed as she swept away.
Gordon dined in his room alone. His secretary, having friends in town, had hurried into dinner togs and taxied off northward. A bath had rested Gordon considerably, and, as he loitered over his coffee in a dressing-robe, he meditated spunking up and going to a theater. There were plenty of people he might have called on, but he didn't feel in the mood for them. Turning to the theatrical advertisements in an evening paper, he ​weighed the merits of the offered attractions. But before he had arrived at a decision the telephone bell tinkled and he crossed the room and answered it. There were four newspaper reporters downstairs who would like to see him, he was told. He instructed the desk to send them up. He was quite ready for them, having spent a part of the morning preparing, with his secretary's aid, a typewritten interview in which the incomparable merits of the Central and Western were fully set forth. When the four young men were seated about the room, each with one of Gordon's best cigars in his mouth and a whisky-and-water at his elbow, the Tribune representative acted as spokesman and for twenty minutes Gordon, responding to skillful questions, held forth on the crop condition, the rumored shortage of cars, the probability of a dawn of new prosperity, immigration, the reorganization of the C. and W. and Chicago as a metropolis. They scorned his prepared interview politely, but bore copies of it away with them, promising to use as much of it as possible. By the time they had filed out it was too late for the theater, and Gordon, now mentally alert, viewed the thought of slumber distastefully. From the windows the ​lights of the boulevard stretched enticingly away into the southern darkness. He decided that he would put on some clothes and go for a walk. But when he was almost ready the telephone again rang and he was told that the Star-Courier reporter begged a few minutes' conversation. Gordon was for refusing at first, but the opportunity to remind the public of the many excellencies of the C. and W. counseled consent.
The Star-Courier reporter proved to be a youth of nineteen or twenty with an alert self-possession and a compelling smile. Gordon, intending to present him with a copy of the typewritten tract and hurry him out, found himself again submitting to an interview. The Star-Courier was apparently less interested in the C. and W. than in Gordon Ames. The reporter glanced at the typewritten sheet and stuffed it into his pocket.
"I'll give that to our railroad editor; he might use some of it," he announced. "What we want is something about yourself, Mr. Ames. You see, the average reader doesn't give a cuss whether the Central and Western is paying dividends or going into the hands of receivers. What he—or she—especially she—wants to know is how Mr. Gordon ​Ames was dressed, what he looked like, whether he smoked a cigar or a cigarette—cigarettes always make a hit with the women readers—and what color pajamas he wears. It's the personal note I'm after."
"Evidently," replied Gordon dryly.
"Yes; and if you can tell me whether you're engaged or going to be soon, it'll make a real hit."
"I am not and don't expect to be at present."
"What's the reason?" The reporter pulled a wad of soiled paper from his pocket and fumbled for a pencil. "Don't you believe in marriage?"
Gordon, undecided whether to be amused or annoyed, laughed. "No, you don't!" he said. "I refuse to have my views on matrimony set forth in your paper. I was on the point of going out when you were announced, so I'll have to ask you to put your questions quickly."
"All right. Sorry to keep you, Mr. Ames. I'd have been around before only I got the assignment by phone only ten minutes ago. Our woman reporter had the job, but she funked it."
Gordon's heart jumped. "Woman reporter? Really? I fancy I've had a narrow escape."
The other grinned. "Believe me, you have, Mr. ​Ames! She's a smart girl and she'd have turned you inside out if she'd wanted to. Why she backed down I don't savvy, because you ought to be good for a full column to her. How do you like Chicago?"
"Perhaps you'd better tell me the young lady's name so I can be on my guard if I ever run across her," said Gordon carelessly.
"That wouldn't do; it would be queering her game; see? What do you think of our new hotel?"
"I used to know—or, rather, I once met a young lady in New York who was on one of the papers. I wonder if it can be the same one? Youngish, is she?"
"About twenty-four or five, maybe. I don't know much about her. She's been with the S.-C. only a month or so. She's smart, though. I suppose you have a good many friends in Chicago?"
"That sounds like the lady I had in mind," pursued Gordon. "Rather dark blue eyes?"
The reporter looked at him quizzically. "We're never going to get anywhere at this rate," he said. "You'd better stop interviewing me, Mr. Ames, and let me fire the questions."
​Gordon smiled. "You answer my questions and maybe I'll answer yours. At least, I will if I can.'
"That's fair. The girl's name is Mills or Mill."
"Hm; first name?"
The other frowned, trying to remember. At last, "Margaret, I think." He grinned. "She never told me, but I have a strong notion that it's Margaret."
Gordon tried to keep the eagerness out of his voice as he asked, "Do they ever call her Peggy?"
"Who? You can bet I don't! She'd jump me, I guess."
"I see; it's probably not the same lady. Now, then, what do you want?"
"Well, suppose you give me a good hot roast on Chicago society; usual New York style, you know; mention of pork packers and newly rich—I never could say it in French—and a passing jab at our fair city's efforts to become a center of art and literature. That always gets their goat."
"I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you." Gordon laughed. "I don't know much about Chicago ​society or its artistic and literary ambition. I have many delightful friends and acquaintances in and about Chicago, and I usually enjoy my visits here. This time I am here only overnight; it's a business trip, you see. I've just completed an inspection of the Central and Western——"
"Then you like Chicago?" interrupted the other in disappointed tones. "That's bad. I thought," he added reproachfully, "you were a New Yorker."
"I am. Mustn't I like Chicago?"
"Shouldn't be done." The reporter shook his head, scribbling on the pad. "Still, I don't know. It hits a rather original note, doesn't it? 'New York Millionaire Likes Chicago.' That's fairly startling. How does it feel to come into a hundred millions at twenty-one, Mr. Ames?"
"I never experienced it."
"Oh, well, I don't pretend to have the exact figures," replied the other carelessly. "A round hundred sounds well, though. By the way, did you reorganize your road yourself? The papers said so, but——"
"The road was reorganized by the stockholders," said Gordon. "Now, I'll really have to ask ​you to excuse me. I'm sorry I haven't supplied you with more—material, but——"
"Oh, that's all right." He dropped paper and pencil into his pockets and arose. "I've got enough for a half-column or so, and I guess that's about all the space they'll give me. If you'd got around earlier in the day you could have had all you wanted."
Gordon stared. "You mean to tell me that you're going to write a half-column about what I've said to-night?"
"Oh, well, principally. Of course, I'll have to put in a good deal about how you looked and acted. Anybody ever speak of your resemblance to Henry Miller? "
"Henry Miller?"
"Yes, the actor."
"Not that I'm aware of," replied Gordon, amused.
"Good! It's new, then. Of course, you're younger, and I don't say that the resemblance is striking, but it makes a good line. 'One immediately notes the strong resemblance to Henry Miller.' Most everybody knows how Henry Miller looks, you see. It beats trying to describe each ​feature. It's an idea of my own. I always decide who a person looks like and it saves trouble. Most women, by the way, look like Maxine Elliott or Maude Adams," he added with a grin.
"And most men like Henry Miller?"
"Well, sometimes it's John Drew. But that's mostly the way they dress. Drew's losing vogue a little now. About time, too. As for Maude Adams, why, I don't think a whole lot of her beauty, but the women are always tickled to death if you say they resemble her. If I want to lay it on a bit artistically I say they have Maxine Elliott's beauty and Maude Adams's charm. That rings the bell every time. Well, I'm much obliged. Hope you'll like the story in the morning."
"I shall love it," responded Gordon gravely. "Good night. By the way, let me offer you a cigar."
"Thanks; I don't mind."
"Take two or three, won't you?"
"Sure. I'll make a hit at the office. 'Have one of Gordon Ames's two dollar cigars?' I'll say. The city editor's been throwing the harpoon into me lately and maybe this'll square me for a while. Much obliged. Good night."
​"Good night. Those cigars, by the way, cost only thirty-seven and a half cents apiece by the box."
"That's all right. The city editor won't know it!"
When Gordon emerged from the elevator five minutes later the reporter was leaning over the desk in conversation with the head clerk. He seemed to be exhibiting something and it looked like a cigar. Gordon went into the library and opened the big dictionary on the end of the table. When he finally stopped turning the leaves this is what he read: "Margaret. (Gr.) A pearl.—Dim. Gritty, Meg, Madge, Maggy, Margie, Margery, Meg, Meggy, Meta, Peg, Peggy (m and p being cognate letters)."