FullReads

III

“Yes, I’m back, Bob.”

The tall, thin Calmar Bye leaned back in his chair and looked listlessly about the familiar cafe, without a suggestion of emotion. It seemed to him hardly credible that he had been away from it all for a year and more. Nothing was changed. Across the room the same mirrors repeated the reflections he had observed so many times before. Nearby were the same booths and from within them came the same laughter and chatter and suppressed song. Opposite the tiny table the same man with the broad, good-natured face was making critical, smiling observation, as of yore. As ever, the look recalled the visionary to the present.

“Back for good, Bob,” he repeated slowly.

The speaker’s attitude was far from being that of a conquering hero returned; the sympathies of the easy-going Robert, ever responsive, were roused.

“What’s the matter, old man?” he queried tentatively. “Weren’t you a success as a broncho-buster?”

“A success!” Calmar Bye stroked a long, thin face with a long, thin hand. “A success!” he repeated. “I couldn’t have been a worse failure, Bob.” He paused a moment, smoothing the table-cloth absently with his finger tips.

“Success!” once more, bitterly. “I’m not even a mediocre at anything unless it is at what I’m doing now, dangling and helping spend the money some one else has worked all day to earn.” He looked his astonished friend fair in the eyes.

“You don’t know what an idiot, a worse than idiot, I’ve made of myself,” and he began the story of the past year.

Monotonously, unemotionally he told the tale, omitting nothing, adding nothing; while about him the sounds of the restaurant, the tinkling of glassware, the ring of silver, the familiar muffled pop of extracted corks, played a soft accompaniment. Occasionally Bob would make a comment or ask explanation of something to him entirely new; but that was all until near the end,–where the delinquent herder, coming swiftly to the brow of the hill, looked down upon the scene in the ravine below. Then Bob, the care-free, the pleasure-seeking, raised a hand in swift protest.

“Don’t describe it, please, old man,” he requested. “I’d rather not hear.”

The speaker’s voice ceased; over his thin features fell the light of a queer little half-smile which, instead of declaring itself, only provoked Bob Wilson’s curiosity. In the silence Bye, with a hand unaccustomed to the exercise, made the familiar gesture that brought one of the busy attendants to his side.

“And the story you wrote–?” suggested Wilson while they waited.

For answer Calmar Bye drew an envelope from his pocket and tossed it across the table to his friend. Wilson first noted that it bore the return address of one of the country’s foremost magazines; he then unfolded the letter and read aloud:

“DEAR MR. BYE:–

“The receipt of your two stories, ‘Storm and Stampede’ and ‘The Lonely Grave,’ has settled a troublesome question for us, namely: What has become of Mr. Calmar Bye?

“No doubt you will recall that our criticisms of the material which you have submitted from time to time in the past, were directed chiefly against faults arising out of your unfamiliarity with your subjects. The present manuscripts bear the best testimony that you have been gathering your material at first hand. We have the feeling, as we read, that every sentence flows straight from the heart.

“Now we want just such vivid, gripping, red-blooded cross-sections of life as these, your two latest accomplishments; in fact, we can’t get enough of them. Therefore, instead of making you a cash offer for these two stories, we suggest that you first call at our office at your earliest convenience. If agreeable, we should like to arrange for a series of Western stories and articles, the evolving of which should keep you engaged for some time to come.

“Cordially,
“——”

The hands of the two friends clasped across the table. No word disturbed the silence until the forgotten waiter broke in impatiently:

“Yo’ o’der, sahs?”

“Champagne”–this time it was Calmar Bye who gave it–“a quart. And be lively about it, too.”

“Well, well!” Bob Wilson’s admiration burst forth. “It is worth a whole herd of steers.”