XXV

Easter came to New York, as it did to other places, and with it came Billy Huntington and Philip to the Thatchers. "Always have something to radiate from," some one once advised, "if only a fly-speck." To Billy, Boston was the fly-speck, entirely satisfactory as a point of radiation but far too respectable, much too decorous, and altogether too near home to be a.s.sociated with his idea of a good time. Billy's life had been running so long on high gear that the lower speeds had almost been forgotten. This was typical of the times rather than a suggestion that the boy himself exceeded the speed limit. It was the limit which insisted upon exceeding itself, and he simply extended his pace to keep up with everything around him,--the limit of yesterday kept becoming the commonplace of to-day.

In New York Billy always found the limit just enough ahead of what it was in Boston to give him the additional thrill which added zest to his life. The very atmosphere seemed charged with a different ozone, filled with microbes impelling incessant activity. Everything not already in motion seemed straining at its leash, impatient to dash forward at the earliest opportunity. No one ever seemed satisfied to where he was, but hurried onward to somewhere else or something different. It was the city of unrest but never of discontent, for the changing, kaleidoscopic conditions came as a result of a demand from those who had the price to pay. It fascinated Billy, as it fascinates its tens of thousands, and as he leaned back in the Thatchers' limousine, held up by the lines of traffic on Fifth Avenue, then dashing forward to make up for lost time between the intersecting streets, he turned his beaming face toward his friend and murmured contentedly, "This is the life!"

"The ride home gets worse every time I take it," was Philip's comment.

"If things keep on they will have to make the Avenue a double-decker street."

"By that time New-Yorkers will ride home in their aeroplanes," Billy replied. "You can't hold them down by a little thing like congestion."

Billy loved it, and for him the car turned off the Avenue all too soon, in its final dash for the East Side. He wanted more time between his arrival at the Grand Central Station and his appearance at the Thatcher mansion to shake off what he felt to be his Boston provincialism, and to feel outwardly as well as inwardly the real New-Yorker which he craved to be.

"What are we doing to-night?" Billy asked as they drew near their destination.

"I wrote Dad to get tickets for some show. You said you wanted to see everything in town."

"Great! Merry will go, won't she?"

"I don't know. I can manage Mother and Dad all right, but when it comes to Merry, that's different."

"But she knows I'm coming--" Billy showed signs of feeling aggrieved.

"Oh, she'll probably go all right. Why fuss until we find out? But I don't think she's as crazy about you as you are about her."

"Girls always conceal their real feelings," Billy explained sagely.

"Perhaps," Philip conceded very little; "but Merry isn't like most girls. Sometimes she seems about my own age and sometimes old enough to be my mother. But have it your own way; I should worry."

The welcome was hearty enough to satisfy even Billy, so the pessimism of his friend was at once forgotten. Mrs. Thatcher opened her arms wide to both boys, while Merry, though less demonstrative, was equally cordial in her reception.

"I'm awfully glad to see you," Billy said with a sincerity which could not be doubted, and grinning all over. "It seems ages since Mr. Cosden and Uncle Monty pushed me off the pier down at Bermuda."

Merry laughed. "That was a splendid idea of yours, Billy, to miss the steamer, but I was afraid you couldn't work it."

"S-ssh," Billy placed a finger on his lips. "Don't ever breathe that where Uncle Monty could hear you! I've made him believe it was a real accident."

"We're dining at seven, boys," Mrs. Thatcher interrupted; "that will give us comfortable time to reach the theater."

"Are we all going?" Phil asked.

"All but your father; he's feeling too tired to-night."

"Dad's well, isn't he?" Philip demanded quickly.

"Yes,--but tired," his mother answered. "He's all right. Now run along and dress or you'll be late for dinner."

On his way up-stairs Philip stopped in his father's room. "h.e.l.lo, Dad!"

he cried, pushing the door open unceremoniously. "Why, Dad,--you're not well! Mother said you were only tired."

Thatcher was sitting in front of the great, old-fashioned desk which Philip had a.s.sociated with business and mystery since his childhood days, and when the door was unexpectedly thrown open it disclosed him resting his head upon his hands. The papers which Philip usually saw spread out on the desk were lacking, so the position his father had taken was the result of habit rather than present necessity. It was the expression on the elder man's face which forced the exclamation.

Thatcher rose quickly and stepped forward to greet his son. "Nonsense, boy! I'm all right," he exclaimed with an effort to speak lightly which did not escape Philip; "I'm just tired, as your mother said.--I didn't hear you come in or I would have been down-stairs to meet you."

"You're not all right," Philip protested stoutly, still holding his father's hand and looking squarely into his face. "You don't need to do this with me, Dad; I'm a man now, and we ought to talk together like men.--Has this anything to do with what you wrote me about my allowance?"

"We'll discuss it in the morning, Phil," Thatcher evaded. "Get dressed now, and later we'll talk things over like two men, as you say. It will help me to do that. Don't worry, boy; everything will come out all right."

"That's a promise, Dad?"

"Yes; we'll put our heads together in the morning."

Thatcher was as gay as the young people when they sat down to dinner, and entered into the enjoyment of the home-coming so heartily that Marian was relieved.

"All you needed, Harry, was to have Phil come home," she said. "Couldn't you telephone for another ticket and go with us?"

"Not to-night; I have work to do. To-morrow Phil is going to lend a hand, and then perhaps we'll have some play together.--Tell us of your uncle, Billy."

"Oh, Uncle Monty is all right,--except that he's become so terribly sober and serious. What did you people do to him down at Bermuda? He hasn't been the same since."

"He was serious down there," Merry a.s.serted.

"Oh, he never was a cut-up, of course," Billy explained; "but he was always saying things to make you laugh, and I could jolly him just as if he was one of the fellows."

"Can't you do it now?" Mrs. Thatcher inquired.

"No; if I do he gets sore. Why, only the other night Phil and I went in there to dinner. I made some remark about his being a woman-hater, and he got huffed up in a minute. Didn't he, Phil?"

"Monty Huntington a woman-hater?" Mrs. Thatcher laughed. "No wonder he was 'huffed'!"

"But he never married, did he? Isn't that a sure sign that he's a woman-hater?"

"Oh, dear no!" Mrs. Thatcher insisted. "That may be taken quite as much as an evidence of his profoundest respect and veneration for woman. In fact, if fifty per cent. of the men who do marry would refrain from it no greater tribute could be paid us!"

The boy looked at her inquiringly. "Do all older people run marriage down like that?" he inquired. "Every time the subject comes up some one gives it a knock. With Uncle Monty, of course, it's sour grapes, because now he's so old no one would think of marrying him, but--"

"He's not so old," Merry interrupted unexpectedly and with such force that Billy was taken by surprise.

"Oh, ho!" Billy cried. "So that's the way the land lies! Now you've said a mouthful. This is a case of mutual admiration! Uncle Monty told us the other night that you were the finest girl he ever saw."

"He did!" Merry cried, the blood rushing into her cheeks and her face aglow with pleasure. "I wish I thought he really meant it!"

"He meant it all right," Philip corroborated. "Mr. Huntington doesn't make mouth-bets. He was calling me down for saying that you were just like other girls."