Count Bunker

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"Two deuced nice girls," mused he; "I do believe
I told 'em the truth in every particular!"

He watched their car dwindle to a scurrying speck,
and then strolled back thoughtfully to purchase his
ticket.

He found the signals down, and the far-off clatter
of the train distinctly audible through the early morning
air. A few minutes more and he was stepping into
a first-class compartment, his remarkable costume earning
(he could not but observe) the pronounced attention
of the guard. The Baron and Alicia, with an air
of mutual affection, entered another; both the doors
were closed, everything seemed ready, yet the train
lingered.

"Start ze train! Start ze train! I vill give you a
pound--two pound--tree pound, to start him!"

The Count leaped up and thrust his head through
the window.

"What the dickens----!" thought he.

Hanging out of the other window he beheld the
clamant Baron urging the guard with frenzied entreaty.

"But they're wanting to go by the train, sir," said
the guard.

"No, no. Zey do not! It is a mistake! Start
him!"

Following their gaze he saw, racing toward them,
the cause of their delay. It was a motor car, yet not
the same that had so lately departed. In this were
seated a young man and an elderly lady, both waving
to hold back the train; and to his vast amazement he
recognized in the man Darius Maddison, junior, in the
lady the Countess of Grillyer.

The car stopped, the occupants alighted, and the
Countess, supported on the strong arm of Ri, scuttled
down the platform.

"Bonker, take her in mit you!" groaned the Baron,
and his head vanished from the Count's sight.

Even this ordeal was not too much for Bunker's
fidelity.

"Madam, there is room here!" he announced
politely, as they swept past; but with set faces they
panted toward the doomed von Blitzenberg.

All of the tragedy that the Count, with strained
neck, could see or overhear, was a vision of the Countess
being pushed by the guard and her escort into that
first-class compartment whence so lately the Baron's
crimson visage had protruded, and the voice of Ri
stridently declaring--

"Guess you'll recognize your momma this time,
Baron!"

A whistle from the guard, another from the engine,
and they were off, clattering southward in the first
of the morning sunshine.

Inadequately attired, damp, hungry, and divorced
from tobacco as the Count was, he yet could say to himself
with the sincerest honesty

"I wouldn't change carriages with the Baron von
Blitzenberg--not even for a pair of dry socks and a
cigar! Alas, poor Rudolph! May this teach all young
men a lesson in sobriety of conduct!"

For which moral reflection the historian feels it
incumbent upon him, as a philosopher and serious
psychologist, to express his conscientious admiration.

EPILOGUE

IT was an evening in early August, luminous and
warm; the scene, a certain club now emptied of
all but a sprinkling of its members; the festival,
dinner; and the persons of the play, that gentleman
lately known as Count Bunker and his friend the
Baron von Blitzenberg. The Count was habited in
tweeds; the Baron in evening dress.

"It vas good of you to come up to town jost to see
me," said the Baron.

"I'd have crossed Europe, Baron!"

The Baron smiled faintly. Evidently he was scarcely
in his most florid humor.

"I vish I could have asked you to my club, Bonker."

"Are you dissatisfied with mine?"

"Oh, no, no! But---- vell, ze fact is, it vould be
reported by some one if I took you to ze Regents.
Bonker, she does have me watched!"

"The Baroness?"

"Her mozzer."

"The deuce, Baron!"

The diplomatist gloomily sipped his wine.

"You did hush it all up, eh?" he inquired presently.

"Completely."

"Zank you. I vas so afraid of some scandal!"

"So were they; that's where I had 'em."

"Did zey write in moch anger?"

"No--not very much; rather nice letters, in fact."

The Baron began to cheer up.

"Ach, so! Vas zere any news of--ze Galloshes?"

"Yes, they seem very well. Old Rentoul has caught
a salmon. Gallosh hopes to get a fair bag----"

"Bot did zey say nozing about--about Miss Eva?"

"The letter was written by her, you see."

"SHE wrote to YOU! Strange!"

"Very odd, isn't it?"

The Baron meditated for a minute and then inquired--

"Vat of ze Maddisons?"

"Well, I gather that Mr. Maddison is erecting an
ibis house in connection with the aviary. Ri has gone
to Kamchatka, but hopes to be back by the 12th----"

"And Eleanor--no vord of her?"

"It was she who wrote, don't you know."

"Eleanor--and also to you! Bot vy should she?"

"Can't imagine; can you?"

The Baron shook his head solemnly. "No, Bonker,
I cannot."

For some moments he pondered over the remarkable
conduct of these ladies; and then--

"Did you also hear of ze Wallingfords?" he
asked.

"I had a short note from them."

"From him, or----"

"Her."

"So! Humph, zey all seem fond of writing letters."

"Why--have you had any too?"

"No; and I do not vant zem."

Yet his immunity did not appear to exhilarate the
diplomatist.

"Another bottle of the same," said Bunker aside to
the waiter.

. . . . . .

It was an hour later; the scene and the personages
the same, but the atmosphere marvellously altered.

"To ze ladies, Bonker!"

"To HER, Baron!"

"To zem both!"

The genial heart, the magnanimous soul of Rudolph
von Blitzenberg had asserted their dominion again.
Depression, jealousy, repentance, qualms, and all other
shackles of the spirit whatsoever, had fled discomfited.
Now at last he saw his late exploits in their true heroic
proportions, and realized his marvellous good fortune
in satisfying his aspirations so gloriously. Raising
his glass once more, he cried--

"Dear Bonker, my heart he does go out to you!
Ach, you have given me soch a treat. Vunce more I
schmell ze mountain dew--I hear ze pipes--I gaze into
loffly eyes--I am ze noblest part of mineself! Bonker,
I vill defy ze mozzer of my wife! I drink to you, my
friend, mit hip--hip--hip--hooray!"

"You have more than repaid me," replied the Count,
"by the spectacle you have provided. Dear Baron,
it was a panorama calculated to convert a continent!"

"To vat should it convert him?" inquired the Baron
with interest.

"To a creed even merrier than Socialism, more
convivial than Total Abstinence, and more perfectly
designed for human needs than Esperanto--the gospel
of 'Cheer up.' "

"Sheerup?" repeated the Baron, whose acquaintance
with the English words used in commerce and war
was singularly intimate, but who was occasionally at
fault with terms of less portentous import.

"A name given to the bridge that crosses the Slough
of Despond," explained the Count.

The Baron still seemed puzzled. "I am not any
wiser," said he.

"Never cease thanking Heaven for that!" cried
Bunker fervently. "The man who once dubs himself
wise is the jest of gods and the plague of mortals."

With this handsome tribute to the character and
attainments of one of these heroes, and the Baronial
roar that congratulated the other, our chronicle may
fittingly leave them; since the mutual admiration of
two such catholic critics is surely more significant
than the colder approval of a mere historian.

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