Books: The Long Chance
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Peter B. Kyne >> The Long Chance
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Donna commenced to cry. Mr. Pennycook's sympathy, albeit checked and
moderated to a great extent by the presence of his wife, was,
nevertheless, the most genuine sample of that rare commodity which she
had received up to that moment. His action had been so--brave--so
spontaneous--he knew--he understood; Dan Pennycook had a soul. And
besides he was going to wire for some red roses--and O, how scarce were
red roses in San Pasqual!
"O Mr. Pennycook, dear Mr. Pennycook" she wailed, and sought instant
refuge on his honest breast. She placed her arms around his neck and
cried, and Mr. Pennycook cried also, until his single Sunday
handkerchief was used up--whereat he pleaded dumbly with his wife for
her handkerchief--and was refused. So, like some great blubbering boy,
he used his fists, while Mrs. Pennycook looked coldly on, working her
lower lip and the tip of her nose, rabbit-fashion, for all the world
like one who, having anticipated a sniff of the spices of Araby, has
detected instead a shocking aroma of corned beef and cabbage.
It was a queer tableau, indeed; Donna weeping on Mr. Pennycook's
breast, when every instinct of her sex, even the vaguest acceptance of
tradition and custom, dictated that she should have wept on Mrs.
Pennycook's breast. Mrs. Pennycook realized the incongruity of the
situation and was shrewd enough to attribute it to a strong aversion to
her on the part of Donna Corblay. She resolved to make them both pay
for her humiliation--Dan, within the hour, Donna whenever the
opportunity should occur.
CHAPTER IV
When Donna and Mr. Pennycook had succeeded eventually in overcoming
their emotions, the worthy yardmaster and his wife took their
departure. Mr. Pennycook was compelled to return to work and something
told him that Donna would be happier alone than with Mrs. Pennycook;
hence he made no objection to her leaving the Hat Ranch.
They had scarcely left when the man whom Sam Singer had consulted at
the Silver Dollar saloon earlier in the day appeared from the north
angle of the adobe wall, where he had been lurking, and dodged into the
Hat Ranch enclosure. Donna was seated at the kitchen table, her face in
her hands, when he arrived. He could see her through the open half-
window of the lean-to, so he came to the window, thrust his head and
shoulders in and coughed.
Donna raised her head and gazed into the face of the worst man in San
Pasqual!
This peculiarly distinguished individual was Mr. Harley P. Hennage, the
proprietor of a faro game in the Silver Dollar saloon. He had an
impassive, almost dull, face (accentuated, perhaps, from much playing
of poker in early life) which, at times, would light up with the shy
smile of a trustful child, revealing three magnificent golden upper
teeth. He bore no more resemblance to the popular conception of a
western gambler than does a college professor to a coal passer. Mr.
Hennage lived in his shirtsleeves, paid cash and hated jewelry. He had
never been known to carry a derringer or a small, genteel, silver-
plated revolver in his waist-coat pocket. Neither did he appear in
public with a bowie knife down his bootleg. Not being a Mexican, he did
not carry a knife, and besides he always wore congress gaiters. Owing
to the fact that he was a large florid sandy person, with a freckled
bristly neck and a singularly direct fearless manner of looking at his
man with eyes that were small, sunken, baleful and rather piggy, the
exigencies of Mr. Hennage's profession had never even warranted
recourse to his two most priceless possessions--his hands. Yet, despite
this fact, and the further fact that he had never accomplished anything
more reprehensible than staking his coin against that of his neighbor,
Mr. Hennage had acquired the reputation of being the worst man in San
Pasqual. In the language of the country, he was a hard _hombre,_
for he looked it. When one gazed at Mr. Hennage he observed a human
bulldog, a man who would finish anything he started. Hence, he was
credited with the ability and inclination to do the most impossible
things if given half an excuse. It is needless, therefore, to remark
that Mr. Hennage's depravity, like Mrs. Pennycook's virtue, partook
more or less of the nature of the surrounding country; that is to say,
it was susceptible of development.
Most people in this queer world of ours harbor an impression that if
you make friends with a dog he will not bite you, and that lion tamers
are enabled to accumulate gray hairs merely by the exercise of nerve
and the paralyzing influence of the human eye. Hence, when the worst
man in San Pasqual confronted Donna, she did not at once scream for Sam
Singer, but looked Mr. Hennage in the eye and quavered.
"Good morning, Mr. Hennage."
It was hard work continuing to look Mr. Hennage in the eye. To-day he
looked more like a bulldog than ever, for his eyes were red-lidded and
watery.
Mr. Hennage nodded. He drew a silk handkerchief from his coat pocket
and blew his nose with a report like a pistol shot before he spoke.
"How's the kitty?" he demanded.
Donna glanced toward the store and about the kitchen wearily and
replied.
"I don't know, Mr. Hennage. I guess she's around the house somewhere."
"The Lord love you" murmured the gambler. The hard lips lifted, the
dull impassive face was lit for an instant by the trustful childish
smile, and through the glory of that infrequent facial expression
Harley P.'s three gold front teeth flashed like triple searchlights.
"I mean, Miss Corblay, have you any money?"
"Only a little bit, Mr. Hennage" Donna quavered. The question
frightened her and she hastened to assure the bad man that it was a
very little bit indeed, and all that her mother had been able to save.
She trembled lest the monster might take a notion to rob her of even
this meager amount.
"I just had a hunch it was that way with you." The worst man in San
Pasqual wagged his great head, as if to compliment himself on his
penetration. "I just knew it."
This was not strictly the truth. Sam Singer had managed to convey to
the gambler some hint of the Corblay fortunes, financial as well as
material, and had begged of him to exercise his superior white man
intelligence to aid the Indian in wrestling with this white man's
problem that confronted the dwellers at the Hat Ranch. Rather a queer
source, indeed, for Sam Singer to seek help for his young mistress; but
then Sam was not an educated aborigine; he was not given to reflecting
upon the ethics of any given line of procedure. The fact of the matter
was that Harley P. Hennage was the only white man in San Pasqual who
deigned to honor Sam Singer with a greeting and his cast-off shoes. In
return Sam had honored Harley P. with his confidence and an appeal to
him for further aid.
"I have attended to everything" continued Mr. Hennage. "Preacher,
quartette from Bakersfield--they're real good, too. Playin' in a
theater up there, but I engaged to get 'em back in time for the evenin'
performance on a special train--so they said they'd come. An' I've
ordered an elegant coffin, the best they had in stock, with a floral
piece from Sam Singer an' his squaw an' a piller o' white carnations
with 'Mother' in violets--from you, understand? Everything the best,
spick an' span an' no cost to the estate. Compliments o' Harley P.
Hennage, Miss Donna." He paused and rubbed his hairy freckled hands
together in an embarrassed manner. "I hope you won't think I'm actin'
forward, because I ain't one o' the presumin' kind. I just wanted to do
somethin' to help out because--your mother was a very lovely lady.
Three times a day for ten years she give me my change an' there never
was a time when she didn't have a decent, kindly word for me--the only
good woman in this town that'd look at me--God bless her! Mum's the
word, Miss Donnie. Don't let nobody know I did it, because it'd hurt
your reputation. And don't tell Mrs. Pennycook! Pennycook's a clean,
decent old sport, but look out for the missus!" Here Mr. Hennage
lowered his voice, glanced cautiously around to make certain that he
would not be overheard by Mrs. Pennycook, leaned further in the window
and improvising a megaphone with his hands, whispered hoarsely the
damning words: "She _talks!_"
Donna nodded. For a long time she had suspected Mrs. Pennycook of this
very practice.
"I've got to light out now" Mr. Hennage continued. "Folks'll wonder if
they see _me_ hangin' around here. But before I go I want to tell
you somethin'. Your mother was a-countin' out my change yesterday when
she got took. She thought she was goin' then on account o' the pain
bein' sharper than common, an' she cries out: 'Donnie! Donnie! My baby,
whatever is a-goin' to become o' you when I'm gone!' I was the only one
that heard her say it. I caught her when she was fallin', an' I told
her I'd see that you didn't lack for nothin' while I lived an' that I'd
keep an eye on you an' see that nothin' wrong happened to you. Your
mother couldn't speak none then, Miss Donnie, but she give my hand a
little press to show she was on an' that whatever I did was done with
her say-so. Consequently, Miss Donnie, any time you need a friend you
just ring up the Silver Dollar saloon an' tell the barkeep to call
Hennage to the 'phone. Remember! I ain't the presumin' kind, but I can
be a good friend--"
He dodged back as if somebody had struck at him. Before Donna could
quite realize what he had been saying he had disappeared. She ran to
the iron-barred gate, looked out and saw him walking up the railroad
tracks toward San Pasqual. She called after him. He turned, waved his
hand and continued on--a great fat bow-legged commonplace figure of a
man, mopping his high bald forehead--a plain, lowly citizen of
uncertain morals; a sordid money-snatcher coming forth from his den of
iniquity to masquerade for an hour as the Angel of Hope, and returning
--hopeless.
For the last tie that bound Harley P. Hennage to San Pasqual was
severed. His soul was not mediocre; he could dwell no longer in San
Pasqual without feeling himself accursed. Never again could he bear to
sit on his high stool at the lunch counter in the railroad eating-
house, where he had boarded for ten years, and watch a stranger taking
cash. He had watched Donna's mother so long that the vigil had become a
part of his being--a sort of religious ceremony--and in this little
tragedy of life no understudy could ever star for Harley P. Her
beautiful sad eyes were closed forever now and the tri-daily joy of his
sordid existence had vanished.
"What little things go to make up the big pleasures of life! Who could
guess, for instance, that the simple deceit of presenting a twenty-
dollar piece in payment of a fifty-cent meal check had held for Harley
P. a greater joy than the promise of ultimate salvation? Yet it had;
for during the slight wait at the pay counter while the cashier counted
out his change he had been privileged to view her at close quarters, to
mark the contour of her nose, to note the winning sweetness of her
tender mouth, to hearken to the music of her low voice counting out the
dollars, and, perchance, saying something commonplace himself as he
gathered up his change! Yet that had been sufficient to make of San
Pasqual a paradise for Harley P. He knew his limitations; he had
presumed but once, long enough to ask the cashier to marry him. Her
refusal had made him worship her the more, only he worshiped thereafter
in silence and from afar. She had not laughed at him nor scorned him
nor upbraided him, lowly worm that he was, for daring to hope that he
might be good enough for her! No. She had told him about her husband,
who had gone prospecting and never returned; of Sam Singer who had been
rescued on the desert when close to death, of his return with a wild
story of much gold and a man, whose name he did not know, who had
killed her husband and escaped with the gold. She respected Mr.
Hennage, she admired him, she knew he was good and kind--and she did
not refer to his method of making a living. She merely laid her soft
hand on his, as he reached for his nineteen dollars and a half change,
and said:
"Do you understand, Harley?"
Yes, she had called him Harley that day, and he had understood. Her
heart was out in the desert. He took the terrible blow with a smile and
a flash of his gold teeth, and never referred to his secret again.
He thought of her now, as he waddled back to his neglected game in the
Silver Dollar saloon. He wished that he might have been privileged to
admittance into that little room off the kitchen where something told
him she was lying; he wished that he might see her once again before
they buried her--but that would be presuming. He wished he knew of some
plan whereby that poor body might be spared the degradation of
interment in the lonely, windswept, desert cemetery, side by side with
Indians, Mexicans, Greek section hands and the rude forefathers of San
Pasqual.
What a profanation! That horrible cemetery, surrounded by a fence of
barbed wire and superannuated railroad ties, to receive that beloved
clay. He pictured her as he had seen her every day for ten years, and a
rush of vain regret brought the big tears to his buttermilk eyes; the
chords of memory twanged in his breast and he paused on the outskirts
of San Pasqual with hands upraised, fists clenched in an agony of
desperation.
"I can't stand it" he muttered. "I can't. It'll be lonely. I've got to
get out. I'll close my game after the funeral an' _vamose._"
But to return to affairs at the Hat Ranch.
While Harley P. Hennage sat in the Silver Dollar saloon that afternoon
dealing faro automatically and pondering the problem of the precise
purpose for which he had been created; and while Mrs. Pennycook went
from house to house west of the tracks, expounding her personal view of
the extraordinary situation at the Hat Ranch, a south-bound train
pulled in and discharged a trained nurse, an undertaker, a rectangular
redwood box and more floral pieces than San Pasqual had seen in a
decade. After instituting some inquiries as to its location, the nurse
and the undertaker proceeded to the Hat Ranch, followed by a wagon
bearing the box and the flowers.
But why dilate on these mournful details! Suffice the fact that Mrs.
Corblay was laid away next morning in conformity with the wishes of the
only human being who had any right to express a wish in the matter. The
Bakersfield quartette was there and sang "Lead, Kindly Light" and
"Nearer My God To Thee"; the Bakersfield minister was there and read:
"I am the Resurrection and the Life"; Soft Wind threw ashes on her head
and cried in the Cahuilla tongue, "Ai! Ai! Beloved," after the manner
of her people, while Sam Singer stood at the head of the grave like a
figure done in bronze. Dan Pennycook was there, supporting Donna, and
made a spectacle of himself. Mrs. Pennycook was there--and
superintended the disposal of the flowers on the grave; in fact, all
San Pasqual was there, with the exception of Harley P. Hennage--and
nobody wondered why _he_ wasn't there. It was well known that he
was not one of the presuming kind and had nothing in common with
respectable people. And when it was all over, the San Pasqualians went
their several ways, assuming--if, indeed, such an assumption did occur
to any of them--that the unknown who had provided these expensive
obsequies would without doubt provide for Donna also.
That night as Donna lay awake in bed, grieving silently and striving to
adjust herself to a philosophical view of the situation, she heard the
front gate open and close very softly; then slow, stealthy footsteps
passed on the brick walk around the house and down the patio to the end
of the garden. It was very late. Donna wondered who could be visiting
the Hat Ranch at such an hour, for No. 25, which was due in San Pasqual
at midnight, had just gone thundering by. She crept to the window and
looked out.
Beside the flower-covered mound at the end of the garden a man was
kneeling, with the moonlight casting his grotesque shadow on the
blossoms. Presently he stood up, and Donna saw that he had detached one
of Dan Pennycook's big red roses and was reverently hiding it away in
his breast pocket. Standing hidden in the darkness of her room, Donna
could see Harley P.'s face distinctly as he came down the moonlit
patio. The terrible mouth was quivering pitifully, tears bedimmed the
little, deep-set, piggy eyes to such an extent that Harley P. groped
before him with one great, freckled, hairy hand outstretched. He passed
her open window.
"My love! My love!" she heard him mutter, and then the slow stealthy
footsteps passed around the corner of the house and died away in the
distance. Harley P. Hennage had said his farewell to happiness. He was
an outcast now, a soul accursed, fleeing from the soul-crushing
loneliness and desolation of San Pasqual.
When two weeks had passed, the nurse so thoughtfully provided by the
gambler that Donna Corblay might not be obligated even to the slight
extent of companionship and comfort during that trying period to the
women of San Pasqual, returned to Bakersfield. In the interim Donna had
been offered, and had accepted, the position at the railroad hotel and
eating-house so long held by her mother. It was a good position. The
salary was sixty dollars a month. With this princely stipend and the
revenue from the Hat Ranch, and feeling perfectly safe under the
watchful eyes of Sam Singer and Soft Wind, Donna faced her little world
at seventeen years of age in blissful ignorance of the fact that she
was marked in San Pasqual.
She had committed two crimes. In the matter of her mother's funeral she
had scorned the advice of her elders and had dared to overthrow ancient
custom; and--ridiculous as the statement may appear--she had aroused in
Mrs. Pennycook the demon of jealousy! It is a fact. In the bigness of
his simple heart the yardmaster had yielded up to Donna a spontaneous
portion of tenderness and sympathy, which first amazed Mrs. Pennycook,
because she never suspected her husband of being such an "old softy,"
and then enraged her when she reflected that never since their
honeymoon had Dan shown _her_ anything more than the prosaic
consideration of the unimaginative married man for an unimaginative
wife.
It did not occur to Mrs. Pennycook that she had not sought to bring out
these qualities in her husband by a display of affection on her part.
It never occurred to her that Dan Pennycook was a homely, ordinary,
rather dull fellow, in dirty overalls and in perpetual need of a shave;
that Donna was a beauty who could afford to pick and choose from a
score of eager lovers. She only knew that Donna had aroused in Dan
Pennycook the flames of revolt against the lawful domination of his
lawful wife; that he was of the masculine gender and would bear
watching. Miss Molly Pickett, the postmistress, whose official duties
not so onerous as to preclude the perusal of every postal card that
passed through her hands (in addition to an occasional letter, for Miss
Molly was not above the use of a steam kettle and her own stock of
mucilage), was Mrs. Pennycook's dearest friend and her authority for
the knowledge that while all men will bear watching, married men will
bear a most minute scrutiny. Mrs. Pennycook knew that as a wife she was
approaching the unlovely age when fickle husbands tire and cast about
for younger and prettier women. Hence she decided to trim her mental
lamps and light the dastard Daniel out of temptation.
Her first move was a master-stroke of feminine genius. She issued an
order to her husband to buy no more hats of Donna Corblay.
Three loud cheers for Mr. Pennycook! He revolted. He did more. He
turned on Mrs. Pennycook--he shook a smutty finger under her nose. He
said something. He said he would see her, Mrs. Pennycook, further--in
fact, considerably further--than that! All of which was very rude and
vulgar of Mr. Pennycook, we must admit, but--
And now our stage is set at last; so assuming three years to have
passed, behold the curtain rising, discovering Donna Corblay behind the
cashier's counter in the railroad eating-house in the little desert
hamlet of San Pasqual.
It is a different Donna that confronts us now, and the first glimpse is
almost sufficient to cause us to view with a more complacent eye the
mental travail of any married lady whose husband might be exposed to
the battery of Donna's eyes.
Such wonderful eyes! Dark blue, wide apart, intelligent, tender, with a
trick of peeping up at one from under the long black lashes, and
conveying such a medley of profound emotions that it is small wonder
that men--and occasionally women--forgot their change in the excitement
of gazing upon this superior attraction.
In his old favorite seat down at the end of the lunch counter we see
Mr. Harley P. Hennage partaking of his evening meal. He has been away
from San Pasqual for three years, and he has just returned. Also he has
just decided to remain (for reasons best known to himself), although we
may be pardoned for presuming that it may be because he sees an old,
tender memory reflected in Donna's eyes. _Quien sabe?_ He is
older, homelier, sandier than when we saw him last, and he has gambled
much. So we can't read anything in his face. Moreover, we do not care
to. Instinctively our gaze reverts to Donna, for the day's work is
finished, she had proved her cash and is about to go home to the Hat
Ranch.
She is a woman now, a glorious, healthy, athletic creature, with wavy
hair, very fine and thick and black, and glossy as polished ebony. Her
face is tanned and glowing, and the halo of brilliant black hair only
serves to accentuate the glow and to remind us of an exquisite cameo
set in jet. She is taller by three inches than the average woman,
broad-shouldered, full-breasted, slim-waisted, a figure to haunt a
sculptor's memory.
She is dressed in a wash frock of light blue material, with a low
sailor collar that shows to bewildering effect her strong full throat.
She wears a flowing black silk navy reefer and when she puts on her hat
prior to leaving we realize that she has not studied male head-gear
alone, but has taken advantage of her semi-public position to copy
styles and to glean from the women's magazines, on sale at the counter,
the latest hints in metropolitan millinery.
This is the Donna Corblay that faces us this September evening. She has
developed from a girl into a woman, and we wonder if her mind, her
soul, has had equal development, or has it slowly starved in her
unlovely and commonplace surroundings?
It has not. Donna has never been away from San Pasqual since the day
she entered it a babe in arms, but--she presides over the news counter
in addition to her other duties. Here she has access to all the latest
"best-sellers," also the big national magazines, and through these
means she has kept pace with a world that is continually passing her by
in Pullman sleepers. To her has been given the glorious gift of
imagination, and dull, sordid, lonely San Pasqual, squatting there in
the desert sands, cannot rob her of her dreams. Rather has she grown to
tolerate the place, for at her will she can summon up a host of unreal
people to throng its dreary single street; she can metamorphose the
water tank into a sky-scraper, the long red lines of box cars on the
sidings into rows of stately mansions. She reads and dreams much, for
only between the arrival and departure of trains is she kept busy. She
sends for books that would never find a sale in San Pasqual, and some
day--ah! the glory of anticipation! she is going to Los Angeles, where
the event of her life is to take place. Going to be married? No? No,
indeed. She is going to a theater.
So much for an intimate description of our leading lady as she appears
when the curtain rises. But in all plays, whether in real life or on
the stage, there must be a leading man. Very well, be patient. In due
course he will appear. Donna has been dreaming much of this hero of
late. His name is Gerald Van Alstyne, and he is tall, with curly golden
hair, piercing blue eyes and a cleft chin; in short, a veritable Adonis
and different, so different, from the traveling salesmen who leer at
her across the counter and the loutish youths of San Pasqual who,
despairing of her favor, call her by her first name because they know
it annoys her. Donna has not the slightest doubt but that this young
fellow will come rushing in to the eating-house some day, discover her
when he comes to pay his check, and eventually return and keep on
returning until that final happy day when they shall go away together,
to walk hand in hand through green fields and listen to the birds and
bees, to linger under the shade of green trees, to wander in an
Elysium. She does not know what green fields and running water look
like, but she has read about them--
The director's whistle is heard in the wings; the play is on at last!
As Donna thrust the last hatpin through her glorious hair and turned to
leave the place of her employment, her glance rested upon Mr. Harley P.
Hennage, covertly watching her over the edge of his soup spoon. She
removed her glove, walked around the end of the lunch counter and held
out her hand.
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