Mr. Hudson B. Riggs now enters the tale--somewhat tardily, and making a
quick exit, all in a morning coat too tight about the shoulders, and a
smile of festivity too tight about the lips. He looked as improbable as
an undertaker's rubber-plant. Yet in his brief course he had a mighty
effect upon the progress of civilization as exemplified in the social
career of Mr. Milton Daggett.
Mr. Riggs had arrived at a golden position in Alaskan mining engineering
by way of the farm, the section gang, the surveyor's chain, and
prospecting; and his thick hands showed his evolution. His purpose in
life was to please Mrs. Riggs, and he wasn't ever going to achieve his
purpose in life. She wore spangles, and her corsets creaked, and she
smiled nervously, and could tell in a glance quicker than the 1/100
kodak shutter whether or not a new acquaintance was "worth cultivating."
She had made Mr. Riggs thoroughly safe and thoroughly unhappy in the
pursuit of society. He stood about keeping from doing anything he might
want to, and he was profusely polite to young cubs whom he longed to
have in his office--so that he could get even with them.
What Mr. Riggs wanted to do, at the third large tea given by Mrs. Gilson
for Miss Claire Boltwood, was to sneak out on the sun-porch and play
over the new records on the phonograph; but the things he had heard from
Mrs. Riggs the last time he'd done that had convinced him that it was
not a wise method of escape. So he stood by the fireplace--safe on one
side at least--and ate lettuce sandwiches, which he privately called
"cow feed," and listened to a shining, largely feminine crowd rapidly
uttering unintelligible epigrams from which he caught only the words,
"Ripping hand--trained nurse--whipcord--really worth seeing--lost the
ball near the second hole--most absurd person--new maid--thanks so
much." He was hoping that some one would come around and let him be
agreeable. He knew that he stood the ride home with Mrs. Riggs much
better after he had been agreeable to people he didn't like.
What Mr. Riggs did not know was that a young man in uninteresting blue,
who looked like a good tennis-player, was watching him. It wasn't
because he detected a fellow soul in purgatory but because he always was
obsequious outside of his office that Mr. Riggs bowed so profusely that
he almost lost his tea-cup, when the young man in blue drifted to him
and suggested, "I hear you're in the Alaskan mining-game, Mr. Riggs."
"Oh yes."
"Do you get up there much now?"
"No, not much."
"I hope to hit Alaska some day--I'm taking engineering at the U."
"Do you? Straight?" Mr. Riggs violently set his cup down on a
table--Mrs. Riggs would later tell him that he'd put it down in the
wrong place, but never mind. He leaned over Milt and snarled, "Offer me
a cigarette. I don't know if they smoke here, and I dassn't be the first
to try. Say, boy, Alaska---- I wish I was there now! Say, it beats all
hell how good tea can taste in a tin cup, and how wishy-washy it is in
china. Boy, I don't know anything about you, but you look all right, and
when you get ready to go to Alaska, you come to me, and I'll see if I
can't give you a chance to go up there. But don't ever come back!"