Willmar tribune. [volume] (Willmar, Minn.) 1895-1931, 1913-09-17


doors in the cheerful little gar
den Of the Hotel Chatham The
sun streamed warmly upon the
concrete floor Of the court just beyond
the row Of palms and oleanders that
fringed the rail against which his Her
aid rested, that he might read as he
ran. so to speak. He was the only per-
son having dejeuner on the terrace"
as he named it to the obsequious wait
er who always attended him Charles
was the magnet that drew Brock to
the Cha thaln.. that excellent French no.
tel with the excellent English name
Charles was standing, alert but pen
sive. quite near at hand. ready to re-
pIenish the bowl with honey. Brock
was especially fond of it. Brock
bad gone to the Chatham for years just
because Charles was fixture there
Charles spoke the most execrably pic
turesque English. served with puncti
liOuSness that Savored almost of the
overbearing. and boosted that he had
acquired the art of making American
cocktails during five weeks residence
in the United States
1t was a lazy morning. Brock was
happy. lie was even interested when
a porter came forth and unraveled a
long roll of garden hose. with which
he abruptly began to splash water
upon the concrete surface Of the court
without regard for distance or direc-
ton. Moreover. be proceeded to water
the palms. operating from a spot no
less than twenty feet away, until the
faithful Charles restored him to earth
by means Of certain subdued injunc.
lions and less moderate gesticulations.
from which it could be readily gather
ed that 'm'sieur was eating. not bath
ing" Whereupon the utterly uncrush-
cd porter splashed water at right an.
giles, to Brooks relief. "M'sieur will
pardon the boy" apologized Charles in
deepest humility, taking much for
granted. 1T will be very warm today.
Your serviette, m'sieur-it is damp
Pardon" He flew away and back with
another napkin. "Of course, m'sieur.
the Chatham is not the Waldorf" he
announced deprecatingly. "Parbleu,"
beating himself on the forehead, 81
forgot! M'sieur does not like the Wal.
dorf. Eth, bicn. Paris is not New York,
no." Having sufficiently humbled
Paris he withdrew into the back
ground. rubbing his hands as if he
were cleansing them Of something un-
slightly. Brock spread one of the but
tered biscuits with honey and inwardly
admitted that Paris was not New York
He was a good looking chap Of thir-
ty or therea bouts, an American to the
core, bright eyed, keen witted, smooth
faced. virile. From boyhood's earliest
days he had spent portion of his
summers in Europe. Two or three
years Of his life had been employed in
the beaux arts. fruitful years. for
Brock had not wasted his opportuni-
ties. He had gone in for architecture
and building. Today he stood high
among the younger men in New York,
prosperous. successful and menace to
the cid cry that son of the rich can
not thrive in bis fathers domain
Nowadays he came to the old world
Tor his breathing spells. He was able
to combine dawdling and development
without sacrificing one for the other.
wherein lies the proof that his vaca-
tons were not akin to those taken by
most Of US.
The fortnight in Paris was to be
followed by week in St. Petersburg
and brief tour of Sweden and Nor.
way. His stay in the gay city was
drawing to a close. That very morn
Ing he expected to book for st. Peters
burg, leaving in three days.
Suddenly his glance fell upon a name
in the society column before him,
"Roxbury Medcroft~" His face lighted
up with genuine pleasure. An old
friend, boon companion in bygone
days was this same Medcroft. broad
minded, broad gagged young English
man who had pro6ted by stay Of
some years in the States They had
studied together in Paris and they had
toiled together in New York. This is
what he read:
Mr. and Mrs. Roxbury Medcroft Of Lon
don are stopping at the Ritz, en- route to