It was an innocent little note from Jeff Saxton; a polite, humble little
note; it said that Jeff had a card to the Astoria Club, and wouldn't
Milt please have lunch with him? But Milt dropped it on the table, and
he walked round it as though it were a dictagraph which he'd discovered
in the table drawer after happy, happy, hidden hours at counterfeiting.
It seemed more dangerous to refuse than to go. He browned the celebrated
new shoes; he pressed the distinguished new trousers, with a light and
quite unsatisfactory flatiron; he re-re-retied his best spotted blue
bow--it persisted in having the top flaps too short, but the retying
gave him spiritual strength--and he modestly clumped into the aloof
brick portal of the Astoria Club on time.
He had never been in a club before.
He looked at the red tiled floor of the entrance hall; he stared through
the hall into an immense lounge with the largest and softest chairs in
the world, with oil portraits of distinguished old bucks, and ninety per
cent. of the wealth and power of Seattle pulling its several mustaches,
reading the P.I., and ignoring the lone intruder out in the hall.
A small Zulu in blue tights and brass buttons glared at Milt; and a
large, soft, suave, insulting young man demanded, "Yes, sir?"
"Mr. G-g-geoffrey Saxton?" ventured Milt.
"Not in, sir." The "sir" sounded like "And you know it." The flaming
guardian retired behind a narrow section of a bookkeeper's desk and
ignored him.
"I'm to meet him for lunch," Milt forlornly persisted.
The young man looked up, hurt and annoyed at finding that the person was
still to be dealt with.
"If you will wait in there?" he groaned.
Milt sat in there, which was a small blue tapestry room with hard chairs
intended to discourage bill-collectors. He turned his hat round and
round and round, till he saw Jeff Saxton, slim and straight and hard as
the stick hooked over his arm, sailing into the hall. He plunged out
after him, took refuge with him from the still unconvinced inspection of
the hall-man. For twenty seconds, he loved Jeff Saxton.
And Jeff seemed to adore him in turn. He solicitously led Milt to the
hat-checking counter. He showed Milt the lounge and the billiard room,
through which Milt crept with erect shoulders and easy eyes and a heart
simply paralyzed with fear that one of these grizzled clubmen with
clipped mustaches would look at him. He coaxed Milt into a grill that
was a cross between the Chinese throne-room and a Viennese Weinstube,
and he implored his friend Milt to do him the favor of trying the "very
fair" English mutton chops and potatoes au gratin.
"I did want to see you again before we go East, Daggett," he said
pleasantly.