The Ottawa Free Trader

THE BOOBY PRIZE.

Stefano Gonzales was a young Spaniard who had come to the United States to go into business. He had not decided just what that business should be, but in the meantime he occupied himself by seeing the country and studying the social customs. It was not long before he gained an especially good knowledge of progressive euchre and of the german. His opportunities for the pursuit of these branches of education were excellent, and he did not allow his ignorance of colloquial English to interfere with his progress in them. In some other departments of social life he would have been at a disadvantage had he not adopted the habit of listening very little and talking a good deal. For conversational purposes he made a compromise between English and his own language by practically speaking neither. He could not express himself in English, and he was not understood when he spoke Spanish. He therefore took refuge in French, with some little Italian, and when the subject permitted, he was fond of using such German phrases as he had acquired in his study of music. It gave him a sense of equality when he established an intelligent understanding with an American on the basis of German, such as might be felt in meeting an antagonist on neutral ground, and the less the American knew, the better Stefano felt.

He took lessons in English from a pretty blond widow, with whom he also played euchre and danced the german; and with her he spoke in Spanish, so as to make return in kind for the education he was receiving. She gave him much information, always in English, and he paid her eloquent compliments in his own language, and they professed to perfectly understand each other, scorning the idea of an interpreter. It was said that they gossiped and told each other secrets. They certainly entertained themselves.

There was, however, one mode of expression in which Stefano was master. He was a most delightful singer, with a baritone voice as sweet and penetrating as the perfume of the grape blossom. The widow never tired of his solos, but it seemed the one flaw that she could not play his accompaniments for him. He had tried to sing to her playing but her time was so unbending, so perfectly exact, that she drove him wild.

"I want freedom," he would exclaim, in his foreign languages. "I do not wish to count my time when I sing Adelaide, nor to think I am marching when I sing a love song of Andalusia."

"Adelaide," repeated the widow, and began to play the opening bars; but Stefano lightly laid his hand on hers, and said in soft Castilian:

"No, no: you do not understand how that should go."

She laughed. "It is too long. I know," she replied.

Fortunately for the group of friends, Stefano was perfectly willing to sing if Hilda Fleming played for him. She was always willing to do this. It rested her, she said. How this could be some of the circle wondered, because Hilda was a music teacher, and certainly heard enough of the piano. Mrs. Lyons, the widow, explained it by saying that Hilda was a homoeopathist.

The sociable to which they all belonged and which gave Stefano his educational advantages, was rather curious in its composition. It was made up by two entirely different sets of people, who rarely met at any other time. One set, the larger of the two, was strictly professional and medical, being composed of doctors and their wives, one woman doctor, and the young man she was engaged to marry. The others were rather more on the butterfly order, the party consisting of Mrs. Lyons, her sister, Mrs. Arnold, Mr. Arnold, Hilda, Stefano and a young, handsome American named Gregory. They all met every two weeks at different houses, and, under Gregory's administration, had very good times. The only discontented member of the party, indeed, was Gregory himself. It was through his influence that the sociable had taken just the form it had, and now he regretted it. What he would have liked would have been long games of whist with Hilda for a partner, or a never-ending waltz in which her steps should keep time with his own. As things were he never had any satisfaction with her. If they were together at a table, they were victims to a swift game, and were at once separated. He had ill fortune in the german, in which Stefano so distinguished himself as a leader, and he even had no chance in walking home with the young lady. It was one of Mrs. Lyons' little fancies to take Hilda's arm in preference to that of any one else, because Hilda was just the right size, and she also could pinch her whenever she was vexed with the others. In this way the order of procession soon established itself: First walked Mr. and Mrs. Arnold, and then Mrs. Lyons and Hilda, with Stefano and Gregory bringing up the rear. Sometimes the young men would courageously walk with the ladies, though Gregory declared that he had to step behind so often to make room for passers that it made him feel like a "hill horse"; but when Stefano was absent he didn't seem to mind it so much. When he railed over the narrow pavements Stefano would tell him that he ought to go to Spain and spend a year in Toledo, for then New York would seem like a prairie to him. To this Gregory rather rudely replied that his own country was good enough for him.

Stefano worried Gregory. For one thing Gregory had introduced him to the sociable, and was considered his intimate friend. Stefano was even invited to houses as a compliment to Gregory, and this was not made better by the fact that wherever he was thus introduced he was afterward made welcome for his own sake, and so established. And thus wherever he went Gregory had to serve as Stefano's interpreter. He used to wish the Spaniard spoke only his own language. Gregory did not understand that. Even his fragmentary conversations with Hilda were apt to resolve into repeating to her what Stefano wanted her to know. If he had not been so honest he might have made some revenges for himself, but he did not; he translated into bold English all the Spaniard's florid phrases, and hoped they would finally disgust her.

If Stefano had not been going to Florida in March, Gregory would have been desperate, but this prospect upheld him. And he had a scheme which promised to compensate him. He saw in his dreams a beach by the sea—a level beach with the tide low, and the moon shining on it. The air was crisp, but not chilly; the boom of the waves sounded on his very ear. He saw himself walking on this beach, and with him was Hilda. Stefano was in an orange grove or on a coral reef, he cared not which so that he was not on the beach. Nor did he dream of seeking the widow there. Hilda and he were alone. There was no changing of partners, no translation of silly speeches from silly polyglot. They were alone; they spoke in English, and no one interrupted.

To carry out his scheme the co-operation of some of the others was necessary, and so he urged it on them. It was simply to spend Easter week at a certain hotel at the seashore.

It is the quietest place in the world, but really aristocratic. It is ever so much better than Point Prudence," he said, "and, although only five miles off, it has many advantages over the point. The landing is far better, smoother and safer."

"I never bathe in Easter week, except in a tub," said Arnold. "Do you pass, Gregory?"

for they were playing cards.

"Pass? No; I'll order it up. Now, Miss Hilda," and he looked brightly over at his partner. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained, you know."

"I'll do the venturing," replied Hilda; and being third in hand, followed suit, playing very low.

Gregory took no notice of this loss of a trick. "Of course we don't expect ocean bathing," he continued, "but you will want to go there again. I always think of that in going to a new place. It isn't so much one's enjoyment the first time, but the practical knowledge one gains. It helps you in making up your mind the next time—adds another bead to your rosary, as it were."

"Euchred," said Arnold.

"Now, isn't that just my luck?" exclaimed Gregory; "and I hadn't a bad hand either. And then," he continued, although he was now at another table, and had to look over his shoulder to address Arnold, "it is such a comical idea, this clubbing arrangement, and not a bad one either. It works well all around, helps fill up the hotel, and provides you with company of your own choosing."

"We do not all get our board free," said the widow.

"No, of course not. Only the one who gets up the club, or—and this is the best plan—a club can invite a guest instead. Four of us could take one extra person, and eight of us two, and so on. It is what might be called the hospital plan. No one is at extra expense, no one under obligations. You have just the same rates, the same rooms, the same board, as a member of a club, that you would have if you went alone, but there is the extra guest. You can go as a third story party or a first floor. It is share and share alike. No one knows which is guest and which one pays, so there is no discrimination. I call it a capital plan."

"You are sure it is a good house? Well kept?"

"First rate. Oh, come now, Mrs. Lyons! I know I won't get the booby prize. I am not playing for prizes to-night. If I were I should not try for that."

"You must have them strung up like scalps around a wigwam, Gregory. Tell us how many have you got!"

"One for each tally card?" asked the widow.

Gregory laughed mysteriously. "I am going to play for a prize," he said, "and I am going to get it. What kind of a prize it will be you shall judge when you see it."

Thus far Gregory's little scheme had worked fairly. He had interested the party, and had almost persuaded the Arnolds to promise to go. The widow needed no persuasion. She wanted solitude, she said, so as to practice her Spanish, and she was from the first on Gregory's side. To Hilda he said very little. This was the delicate and difficult part of the matter. He was quite sure that she could not afford the holiday, and he knew she would not accept the position of guest unless the affair was managed with great delicacy.

"If I appear in it—if I propose inviting her," he said to himself, "she is so shy, so proud, that she will refuse at once. I must suggest, but I must never say it."

To this subtle and embarrassing task he thus addressed himself. He talked as if both Stefano and Hilda were going, he suggested that he himself might be invited as "guest." He did all that he could to show that the position was most honorable and desirable. He spoke of the rest, of the exhilaration in the air, of leaving the city behind, and yet living in a friendly circle. What were they not to do at Coast Cove! He bought books to read there; he collected photographs and games for the one rainy day they were to have, and finally sent Hilda a volume of poems, on the fly leaf of which was written, "Coast Cove, Easter week, 1886." After a time his persistence persuaded them all that they were going, and they fell into the habit of discussing their plans before they were really aware that they had seriously formed any.

Stefano took but little interest in all this English talked around him. He lived in his lagoon of French and Italian, and the outside waves did not disturb him. His plans for Florida did not please him as the time for leaving drew near, but he promised himself that he could soon see all of the south that he cared for, and he would speedily return. In the mean time he devoted himself to talking to Mrs. Lyons and practising with Hilda. He shrugged his shoulders at the idea of the northern sea coast in March, and told them that he preferred thinking of them as at home.

When the second week in March came Gregory had a summons to Chicago, and had to leave New York at once.

"It is the most unfortunate thing," he said, "but I have written to the Coast Cove house and made provisional arrangements. Arnold can see how they suit. I have a copy of my letter for him. I will certainly get back during the week and will join you there. I have said that there will be at least a club of four and a guest."

"But the guest? Whom are we to invite?" inquired Mrs. Lyons, gayly.

Gregory hesitated. It was a breathless moment to him. He did not dare to look at Hilda. He did not dare to mention her, nor yet to pass her name over. If she did not go the sea would be only a howling wilderness of waves. He looked at Mrs. Lyons; there was a world of entreaty in his eyes. Surely, surely she must know who ought to be the guest!

"We have had so pleasant a winter together. Our party ought not to be broken now. No one has so much influence as you. You choose the guest, make up the party, Mrs. Lyons, and if persuasion fails, try coercion."

Then he laughed, his handsome face flushing.

"A great deal may hang on this. Let us do unto others—"

"I see!" cried the widow: "you are a wicked fellow. But I see through it all. You may depend on me, and the party shall be to your mind."

"Are we limited to four?" asked Mrs. Arnold.

"Leave it to me," replied the widow; "I have made my plans. I know just how to manage it; I know just what we want. But you, Gregory—oh, I shall envy Chicago every day that she keeps so charming a schemer from us," and then she arose and swept Gregory the lowest of bows.

"How well her Spanish comes on!" said Hilda. "She puts it in English, to be sure, but she thinks in the noble language of compliment, and to think in a language is a great proof of progress in it."

The widow's eyes sparkled as she looked at Hilda.

"Don't you rail at Gregory," she said; "I am his friend for life."

And so the matter rested, and Gregory went to Chicago, relying on Mrs. Lyons' discernment and management. But once in the west, the stars seemed to fight against him, and he was delayed day after day. Handsome, young, and successful, he was feted and feasted, but his impatience to leave made everything distasteful to him. His eyes only saw a lonely beach, and a girl standing there and waiting.

Once free, steam hardly flew fast enough for him, and indeed he might be pardoned, as it was Thursday after Easter when he reached Coast Cove. It was night when the cars drew into the station, and he went direct to the beach.

Down by the sands stood a gay little lookout with a broad flight of steps, and Gregory sat down on them in the shadow, calm, although so eager.

It was very sweet. It would seem as natural to Hilda as to him when he came out of the darkness and shook her hand. As he sat there, dreaming yet patient, he saw two figures coming down the beach. It was the lady doctor and the young man she was engaged to marry. He did not disturb his soul by greeting them, and they passed on, not seeing him. By and by Arnold came with his wife. They were silent, and Gregory let them go on and disappear in the darkness.

The ocean lapped the shore, a breeze came up, though gently, and the stars shone brighter. Then sweetly, suddenly, came the breath of a song. It was almost out of the waves, almost a part of them. The words smote on Gregory's ear. They were Italian.

"And nightingales recall thee, Adelaide! Adelaide!"

He sprang to his feet, and toward him Hilda came. She seemed to come, not along the beach as the others had, but from the very edge of the sea, as if she had arisen from it, and her hand was on Stefano's shoulder, and his arm was around her, and he sang to her what Gregory would have said.

As they turned and followed the others the song ceased, and all was silence again except the sea.

Gregory stood still. He was stunned. He felt as though he had been struck on the head. Hilda and Stefano! The Spaniard! In his dreams of the sea and of Hilda, the Spaniard had been in Florida. He pushed his hat back on his head, and rubbed his forehead with his handkerchief. Just then he heard voices again. It was the doctor returning.

"It has not dragged, I allow," she said; "but every one has seen it was coming."

"But it is absurd," replied the young man. "They do not understand each other. He does not speak English, and she understands no other language. It is perfectly, ridiculously absurd."

The latter merrily laughed. "When a young man can make Beethoven talk for him, and can sing Spanish love songs as Stefano Gonzales can, he can make himself understood. Hilda Fleming has been bravely wooed."

"Nonsense: I never heard anything more ridiculous."

"And you have never seen it at all? Morris! I am ashamed of you. Why, we have all watched it with zest."

"And Mr. Gregory? How about him, Ellen? How about him? What will he say?"

"He will be delighted. He is so fond of the Spaniard. Why, he proposed that the whole sociable should come. Mrs. Arnold told me about it, and trouble enough she had to arrange it on such short notice. And, Morris, I couldn't tell you this before, because Stefano hadn't said, or, if you like it better, sung, anything decided; it is a four-leaf clover party, a four-lover party—we four, Hilda and Stefano, you and I, are the guests. How I wish Gregory would come now!"

"A guest!" exclaimed Morris. "Not I, indeed! I don't deadhead it at a hotel, Ellen. And I tell you"—he spoke with conviction—"that Gregory won't like it! You see if he does."

"He will be delighted."

"Delighted!" repeated the young man. "It is a first-class euchre, Ellen. 'Delighted!' Well, you are blind."

"Morris," cried the doctor, turning and almost facing the unseen and horrified Gregory, whose face would have made the fortune of a photographer could it have been seen, "you deserve the booby prize! Indeed you do."

"Well, I shall not get it," her lover grimly replied. "It is given away, but not to me."

In the darkness Gregory pushed his hat down over his eyes. "Idiot!" he muttered, but he did not explain to whom the title belonged.

—Louise Stockton in Harper's Bazar.