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“Had he lived there long?” asked Tim.

  Again the Chief looked mildly annoyed. “Long enough, I guess. These pine woods people don’t keep track of time.”

  “My stomach does,” said Sybil, “and it tells me it’s time for lunch.”

  “See you tomorrow,” said the Chief, waving them on. “Take care of yourselves.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Whittlebait Wins A Bet

  They decided to have lunch at the red brick hotel with the potted shrubs in front of it. First, though, they unearthed Timkins, the plumber, and Timkins said he’d be over either late that afternoon or next morning. After lunch they did a spot of shopping and looked in at the post office, all of which made Tim feel like a burgher of the community. It was a feeling he enjoyed, for a change.

  It was almost two when they got back to Merry Point. After the rain and the chill, the house, as they entered the hallway, felt warm and soothing.

  “Darling,” cried Sybil, “isn’t it good to be home! Let’s jump straight into bed for the afternoon.”

  A loud and disapproving harrumph crackled out of the living-room. Standing in front of the fireplace was a tall, broad-bosomed woman dressed in sensible tweeds and large sensible shoes. A sensible hat was perched on her head. Her face, if you discounted its present expression, was not altogether unhandsome but the features were large and her complexion, which might have been a robust pink in earlier years or better weather, was a rawish red.

  “Lumme!” cried Sybil. “Who are you?”

  The tall woman thrust her shoulders smartly back, which thrust her bosom less smartly forward, and said, “I am Mrs. Lemuel Barrelforth, president of the New Jersey Chapter of the British-American War Brides Improvement Association. I am sorry if I seem to be intruding.”

  “On the contrary,” said Sybil, “we’re delighted to see you.”

  “Rubbish,” snapped Mrs. Barrelforth. “I was a war bride myself once and rainy afternoons were just as wonderful then as they are now.” She sighed briefly and went on. “However, here I am and you’ll have to make the best of it. I’ve come all the way from Trenton to look you over.”

  “Where is Trenton?” asked Sybil.

  “That’s the sort of thing the New Jersey Chapter proposes to teach you. Trenton is the capital of the state, population one hundred and twenty-four thousand, six hundred and ninety-seven, last census. Situated on the Delaware River, scene of George Washington’s historic crossing, and too blasted far from here for convenience.”

  “Oh,” said Sybil. “Then you must be tired. Do sit down and I’ll fetch you some tea. Or would you prefer coffee?”

  “I’d prefer Scotch and plain water,” said Mrs. Barrelforth. She sat down in one of the easy chairs, managing, in spite of its springy depth, to give an impression of being bolt upright.

  “Let’s all have Scotch,” said Sybil. “It’s a wonderful afternoon for drinking, too.”

  “No ice,” Mrs. Barrelforth called after Tim as he headed dutifully for the pantry.

  When he came back with a laden tray, Mrs. Barrelforth was saying to Sybil, “So you see, my dear, the organization is national in scope and has no other purpose than to further the interests of those poor, bewildered lassies far from home.”

  “I’m not poor and bewildered,” said Sybil.

  “So you’re not,” agreed Mrs. Barrelforth, “which is all the more reason why you should become a pillar of the organization rather than a supine recipient of its many benefits. We arc talking,” she explained, turning to Tim, “about the British-American War Brides Improvement Association, its principles and its purposes.”

  “So I gathered,” said Tim, pouring whisky into glasses. “Is that about right?”

  “Mmm,” said Mrs. Barrelforth, peering. “A bit niggardly. That’s better.”

  She accepted the drink and turned back to Sybil. “As I was saying, my dear, the fact that you are neither poor nor bewildered, plus the fact, if you don’t mind my mentioning it, of your having borne a noble name, makes you a natural rallying point for those less fortunate than yourself. That’s not bad Scotch. Where do you get it?”

  “A recherché little place called Macy’s,” said Tim.

  “Oh,” said Mrs. Barrelforth. “I ask because that’s the sort of question the brides are constantly putting to the Association. It’s often the first question. Here in Jersey, of course, it’s no great problem but I don’t know how our Kansas chapter handles it. Imagine some poor chit of a girl who’s spent half her life in the bar parlor of the Goat and Grapes arriving in dry and cyclone-swept Kansas. Well, that’s what the Association’s for. Here’s to it.”

  They all drank to the Association.

  “Take another example,” said Mrs. Barrelforth. “Here’s an innocent English maid who succumbs to some dashing southern major’s talk of a plantation back home. She gets here, and what does she find? A couple of piano boxes nailed together in the Kentucky hills. That’s the signal for our Kentucky chapter to step into the picture. They teach her to play the guitar, teach her to square dance, teach her to drink from a jug. In short, to adjust herself. Here’s to the Kentucky chapter.”

  They all drank to the Kentucky chapter.

  “But what would I do,” asked Sybil, “if I became a pillar of the organization?”

  “Depends on the sort of pillar you want to be,” said Mrs. Barrelforth. “Some pillars merely lend their names for letterhead purposes, others throw themselves heart and soul into the Association’s activities—meeting bride ships, distributing instructive booklets, finding apartments, giving cocktail parties, and holding classes in the American way of life. You know, how to eat corn on the cob, who the Dodgers are, and so on. In one or two cases, they’ve gone bail.”

  “Sounds rather exhausting,” said Sybil. “Isn’t there any happy medium of pillarhood?”

  “There probably is,” said Mrs. Barrelforth, “but I was hoping you’d be the heart-and-soul type. That’s what the Association needs. Don’t forget, the Association provides these wide-eyed young strangers with a bridge to—”

  “Heavens!” cried Sybil. “I forgot to ask you if you played bridge.”

  “No,” said Mrs. Barrelforth firmly. “Don’t play and don’t approve. As I was saying, the Association provides—”

  “It seems to me,” said Sybil, “that it should provide bridge-loving brides with the necessary fourth.”

  “Brides are supposed to be satisfied with a second,” said Mrs. Barrelforth. “They need only one bid in life: two hearts.”

  “It’s nice to have an intervening bid of a diamond,” said Sybil. “I’m sorry you disapprove of bridge because we’re expecting to have a game this afternoon.”

  “Then perhaps I’d best be on my way,” said Mrs. Barrelforth. “Did I hear somebody say ‘One for the road’?”

  “Absolutely,” said Tim, taking her empty glass.

  “How are you getting back?” asked Sybil. “I didn’t see a car outside.”

  “I came by train,” said Mrs. Barrelforth. “Train to Bankville and then took a taxi. Extravagant but a legitimate expense. I’d better phone for another one.”

  “Afraid the phone doesn’t work,” said Tim.

  “Damnation!” cried Mrs. Barrelforth. “I should have known it, too, because I tried to get you this morning. Blast, that does pose a problem.”

  “I can run you over to Bankville,” said Tim.

  He glanced out the window and so did their guest. The wind had come up and was driving the rain against the glass in splashing sheets. The sea was a mass of angry foam-yellow crests amid the gray and the afternoon sky hung darkly close to the earth.

  “It’s a frightful imposition,” murmured Mrs. Barrelforth.

  “It’s a frightful day lo travel,” said Sybil. “Why don’t you stay the night? We’ve loads of room and Tim can drive you to Bankvil
le in the morning.”

  “Good idea,” said Tim, trying to remember how much Scotch there was.

  “Oh, I couldn’t,” protested Mrs. Barrelforth, but with such a lack of conviction that she had to chuckle. “If anybody asks me why I couldn’t, I’d be stumped.”

  “Splendid,” said Sybil. “I’ll slip upstairs right now and get your room ready.”

  “Let me help,” said Mrs. Barrelforth.

  “Nonsense,” said Sybil. “You sit here and give my husband a little talk on the care and feeding of war brides.” She went into the hall and up the broad, sagging stairs. The upstairs hall was a gray murk, considerably chillier than the floor below, and the wind rattled the windows behind the closed doors. Sybil shivered slightly and turned on all the lights in the room she intended for Mrs. Barrelforth.

  There were four bedrooms, old-fashionedly large, two on either side of the hall with bathrooms between them at either end. Tim and Sybil had decided to close off the two rooms on the northerly side of the house while they used the southeasterly one, with its big windows opening on the sea, as their own. The adjoining bedroom had been requisitioned by Sybil as a dressing-room because, she explained, there was nothing that wrecked the sweet mysteries of sex like the sight of a wife in a slip and stocking feet doing messy things to her face. It took all the fun out of undressing, she said.

  However, it seemed the lesser part of hospitality to offer Mrs. Barrelforth one of the closed-off bedrooms, which were musty and dank, so Sybil resignedly made up the bed in her dressing-room. She’d skip the cold cream that night, she told herself.

  When she returned to the living-room, she found that Squareless and Mr. Whittlebait had appeared and, since they had both known Mrs. Barrelforth by correspondence, the introductions had developed into a kind of old home week. It was a very restrained old home week, though, at least on the part of the new arrivals. Mr. Whittlebait, twisting his cap, seemed uncertain of his social status, and Squareless’s frown said plainly that he should have been told there’d be strangers present.

  “Would anybody like tea?” asked Sybil. “Or shall we all stick to Scotch?”

  “I’d like some tea,” said Squareless. “And I’d like it laced with something. Rum, if you’ve got it, and if you’ve got Scotch, you probably have.”

  “The weather bein’ what it is,” said Mr. Whittlebait, “I’ll have the same. Medicinal, you might say.”

  “The least I can do,” said Mrs. Barrelforth, getting up, “is to make the tea. If you’ll just show me the kitchen, my dear, then you can settle down to your cards. The Devil’s Picture Book, I call them.”

  Sybil led her to the kitchen. Tim, while he was setting up the table, said conversationally to Mr. Whittlebait, “I hear this poor fellow on the pier was a neighbor of yours.”

  “So they tell me,” said Mr. Whittlebait, “but I can’t rightly place him. Storekeeper says he used to come in the store now and again so I must of seen him. But he never hung round.” He grinned feebly and added, “Guess he couldn’t have been a card player.”

  “Who couldn’t have been a card player?” asked Sybil, returning from the kitchen.

  “Fellow you found on the pier,” said Mr. Whittlebait.

  “Who said he was a card player?” The question shot sharply from her lips, too sharply to be covered by the indifference of the smile she quickly put on. There was a strained silence. Tim saw both Squareless and Mr. Whittlebait looking at her curiously.

  Then Mr. Whittlebait said mildly, “Why, nobody, ma’am. Nobody said he was a card player.”

  “Sybil’s always on the lookout for a fourth,” said Tim. “Shall we cut?” He spread the cards and the momentary tension melted.

  Mr. Whittlebait cut the ace of spades. “Looks like my lucky day,” he observed. “Can you play this here game for nickels and dimes?”

  “One can,” said Squareless, “but it would hardly be fair.”

  “I don’t mind, if you’re thinkin’ of me,” said Mr. Whittlebait. “We generally play for a little something back at the store. Makes it more interestin’, I always say.”

  “I always say so, too,” said Sybil. “Let’s make it a twentieth. Then nobody can win or lose enough to worry about.”

  “You couldn’t win or lose much at this game anyhow, could you?” asked Mr. Whittlebait. “I mean, not like at pinochle.”

  “At one rime, Whittlebait,” said Squareless, “your opinion was shared by most of the gentry who make their living at the green baize. But when they saw what a chap named Culbertson could make out of it, without even using reflectors, a lot of them changed their minds. A fact, I might add, which I learned the hard way.”

  “I’ll be clanged,” said Mr. Whittlebait. “And here I was figurin’ it was kind of a sissy game.”

  “Sissy like tossing the caber,” grunted Squareless. “Your deal, Whittlebait.”

  They settled down to the game. Mrs. Barrelforth came back with tea and a bottle of rum and proceeded to refresh everybody, including herself—and that substantially. She stood behind Mr. Whittlebait and watched the play for a while with that look of concentrated exasperation peculiar to the uninitiated, then subsided rather grumpily to her Scotch and some knitting she’d brought along.

  It was more like a real bridge game than the previous day’s had been. Mr. Whittlebait had finally turned apostate from his beloved right and left bowers and, though he wasn’t precisely brilliant, he ploughed earnestly along and appeared, in an apologetic way, to be enjoying himself. After two cups of well-laced tea, his watery eyes behind their lenses grew squirrel-bright.

  The wind roared round the house and the rain beat on the gradually darkening windows, while, like a steady accompaniment of kettle drums, the pounding of the sea rose and fell. Inside, the green curtains were drawn, the lamps lit, and the fire crackling, and the only flaw in the general coziness lay in the un-American lack of plumbing facilities. Mrs. Barrelforth took the matter particularly to heart, not only because she had to make several trips outside, but because it was the sort of thing, she said, the Association should have looked after.

  Toward six, Squareless looked at his watch and said he’d have to be getting along. Mr. Whittlebait expressed surprise at the passage of time and said he ought to be getting along, too, but being sixty cents behind, he’d be willing to play another hand or two.

  “Let’s make it the last one, then,” said Squareless.

  “Good,” said Mrs. Barrelforth from her corner. “If I’m to be allowed, at last, to join the party, I’ll slip upstairs and powder. Which is no euphemism, worse luck.”

  She went out, taking her glass with her, and Tim dealt the cards.

  “Let’s hope it’s a lively hand,” said Sybil. “And do try to remember about finesses, Mr. W.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Mr. Whittlebait, who was her partner.

  “Pass,” said Tim sourly. He had been holding rotten cards all afternoon.

  “Maybe you’re lucky in love,” said Mr. Whittlebait slyly.

  “Obviously,” said Tim.

  “I’m glad somebody in the family is,” said Sybil. She looked at her hand and felt a glow of pleasure. She had six hearts to the ace queen and five diamonds to the same combination, no spades and, in clubs, the ace and a small one. It was too good to entrust to Mr. Whittlebait’s erratic responses. “Four hearts,” she said.

  Squareless passed without expression. Mr. Whittlebait brooded. “Pretty big mouthful,” he said. “Four spades.”

  Sybil frowned and bid five diamonds.

  “Double,” said Squareless.

  “Seven spades,” said Mr. Whittlebait.

  Sybil slapped down her hand. “Really, Mr. Whittlebait,” she said, “that’s ridiculous.”

  “Ssh,” said Squareless. “The auction isn’t over. I double.”

  “Double check,” said Mr. Whittle
bait. “No, that ain’t it. Redouble.”

  Tim led a heart, properly, and Sybil spread her cards hopelessly. “It’s on your own head,” she growled. “Not a spade in the hand.”

  Mr. Whittlebait considered the dummy sadly. “I ain’t worried about the spades,” he said, “but we sure are short on kings.”

  “Mind if I stand behind him?” Sybil asked Squareless.

  “All right,” said Squareless. “But no coaching.”

  Sybil walked around the table and looked at the cards which Mr. Whittlebait held in trembling fingers. The spades were beautiful, certainly, eight of them to four top honors, and he had the king of clubs, once guarded. She couldn’t really blame him for having bid his grand slam, but he had the jack and a small heart and one small diamond. Unless the heart finesse worked, there wasn’t a chance that she could see.

  Mr. Whittlebait sighed deeply and played the ace of hearts from the board.

  “Oh,” Sybil couldn’t help exclaiming, “the finesse was our only hope!”

  “Dangnation,” said Mr. Whittlebait. He led out his ace and king of clubs.

  “Many a man is walking the streets of London, Mr. Whittlebait,” murmured Sybil, “because he failed to lead trumps.”

  “Is that why many a girl walks the streets of London?” asked Tim.

  “No coaching,” grumbled Squareless. “And no badinage, either.”

  “Well,” said Mr. Whittlebait, shaking his head, “reckon all I can do now is lead these here spades and hope somebody makes a mistake.” He led the ace and both of the others followed.

  “There won’t be any mistakes,” said Squareless.

  “Maybe not,” said Mr. Whittlebait. “I’ll bet I can make the danged thing anyhow. Bet you five bucks.”

  “Mr. Whittlebait!” protested Sybil.

  “I wouldn’t take your money,” said Squareless, “but I’ll put up five dollars against you trimming my rosebushes.”

  “Taken,” said Mr. Whittlebait.

  “Mind if I peek at your hand?” Sybil asked Squareless. He shrugged and she peeked. He had both kings over dummy’s hearts and diamonds. “I can’t watch,” said Sybil and walked to the window. She lit a cigarette and stared at the rain. Mr. Whittlebait went on leading spades and shaking his head.