Chapter II
A Trip To Newark

Perhaps no factor is more indicative of the type of a home life than its breakfast atmosphere. For, in America, it is only a small proportion, even among the wealthy who ‘breakfast in their rooms.’ And a knowledge of the appointments and customs of the breakfast are often data enough to stamp the status of the household.

In the Embury home, breakfast was a pleasant send-off for the day. Both Sanford and Eunice were of the sort who wake up wide-awake, and their appearance in the dining-room was always an occasion of merry banter and a leisurely enjoyment of the meal. Aunt Abby, too, was at her best in the morning, and breakfast was served sufficiently early to do away with any need for hurry on Sanford’s part.

The morning paper, save for its headlines, was not a component part of the routine, and it was an exceptionally interesting topic that caused it to be unfolded.

This morning, however, Miss Ames reached the dining-room before the others and eagerly scanned the pages for some further notes of the affair in Newark.

But with the total depravity of inanimate things and with the invariable disappointingness of a newspaper, the columns offered no other information than a mere announcement of the coming event.

“Hunting for details of your wild-goose chase?” asked Embury, as he paused on the way to his own chair to lean over Aunt Abby’s shoulder.

“Yes, and there’s almost nothing! Why do you take this paper?”

“You’ll see it all to-day, so why do you want to read about it?” laughed a gay voice, and Eunice came in, all fluttering chiffon and ribbon ends.

She took the chair Ferdinand placed for her, and picked up a spoon as the attentive man set grapefruit at her plate. The waitress was allowed to serve the others, but Ferdinand reserved to himself the privilege of waiting on his beloved mistress.

“Still of a mind to go?” she said, smiling at her aunt.

“More than ever! It’s a perfectly heavenly day, and we’ll have a good ride, if nothing more.”

“Good ride!” chaffed Embury. “Don’t you fool yourself, Aunt Abby! The ride from this burg to Newark, N.J., is just about the most Godforsaken bit of scenery you ever passed through!”

“I don’t mind that. Al Hendricks is good company, and, any way, I’d go through fire and water to see that Hanlon show. Eunice, can’t you and Mr. Hendricks pick me up? I want to go to my Psychic Class this morning, and there’s no use coming way back here again.”

“Yes, certainly; we’re going about noon, you know, and have lunch in Newark.”

“In Newark!” and Embury looked his amazement.

“Yes; Alvord said so last night. He says that new hotel there is quite all right. We’ll only have time for a bite, anyway.”

“Well, bite where you like. By the way, my Tiger girl, you didn’t get that information from our friend last evening.”

“No, San, I couldn’t, without making it too pointed. I thought I could bring it in more casually to-day—say, at luncheon.”

“Yes; that’s good. But find out, Eunice, just where the Merediths stand. They may swing the whole vote.”

“What vote?” asked Aunt Abby, who was interested in everything.

“Our club, Auntie,” and Embury explained. “You know Hendricks is president—has been for years—and we’re trying to oust him in favor of yours truly.”

“You, Sanford! Do you mean you want to put him out and put yourself in his place?”

“Exactly that, my lady.”

“But-how queer! Does he know it?”

“Rather! Yes—even on calm second thought, I should say Hendricks knows it!”

“But I shouldn’t think you two would be friends in such circumstances.”

“That’s the beauty of it, ma’am; we’re bosom friends, as you know; and yet, we’re fighting for that presidency like two cats of Kilkenny.”

“The New York Athletic Club, is it?”

“Oh, no, ma’am! Not so, but far otherwise. The Metropolitan Athletic Club if you please.”

“Yes, I know—I’d forgotten the name.”

“Don’t mix up the two—they’re deadly rivals.”

“Why do you want to be president, Sanford?”

“That’s a long tale, but in a nutshell, purely and solely for the good of the club.”

“And that’s the truth,” declared Eunice. “Sanford is getting himself disliked in some quarters, influential ones, too, and he’s making life-long enemies—not Alvord, but others—and it is all because he has the real interests of the club at heart. Al Hendricks is running it into—into a mud-puddle! Isn’t he, San?”

“Well, yes, though I shouldn’t have thought of using that word. But, he is bringing its gray hairs in sorrow to the grave—or will, if he remains in office, instead of turning it over to a well-balanced man of good judgment and unerring taste—say, like one Sanford Embury.”

“You certainly are not afflicted with false pride, Sanford,” and Aunt Abby bit into her crisp toast with a decided snap.

“Why, thank you,” and Embury smiled as he purposely misinterpreted her words. “I quite agree, Aunt, that my pride is by no means false. It is a just and righteous pride in my own merits, both natural and acquired.”

He winked at Eunice across the table, and she smiled back appreciatively. Aunt Abby gave him what was meant to be a scathing glance, but which turned to a nod of admiration.

“That’s so, Sanford,” she admitted. “Al Hendricks is a nice man, but he falls down on some things. Hasn’t he been a good president?”

“Until lately, Aunt Abby. Now, he’s all mixed up with a crowd of intractables—sporty chaps, who want a lot of innovations that the more conservative element won’t stand for.”

“Why, they want prize-fights and a movie theatre-right in the club!” informed Eunice. “And it means too much expense, besides being a horrid, low-down—”

“There, there, Tiger,” and Sanford shook his head at her. “Let us say those things are unpalatable to a lot of us old fogies—”

“Stop! I won’t have you call yourself old—or fogyish, either! You’re the farthest possible removed from that! Why, you’re no older than Al Hendricks.”

“You were all children together,” said Aunt Abby, as if imparting a bit of new information; “you three, and Mason Elliott. Why, when you were ten or eleven, Eunice, those three boys were eternally camping out in the front yard, waiting for you to get your hair curled and go out to play. And later, they all hung around to take you to parties, and then, later still—not so much later, either—they all wanted to marry you.”

“Why, Auntie, you’re telling the ‘whole story of my life and what’s my real name!’—Sanford knows all this, and knows that he cut out the other two—though I’m not saying they wanted to marry me.”

“It goes without saying,” and her husband gave her a gallant bow. “But, great heavens, Eunice, if you’d married those other two—I mean one of ‘em—either one—you’d have been decidedly out of your element. Hendricks, though a bully chap, is a man of impossible tastes, and Elliott is a prig—pure and simple! I, you see, strike a happy medium. And, speaking of such things, are your mediums always happy, Aunt Abby?”

“How you do rattle on, Sanford! A true medium is so absorbed in her endeavors, so wrapped up in her work, she is, of course, happy—I suppose. I never thought about it.”

“Well, don’t go out of your way to find out. It isn’t of vital importance that I should know. May I be excused, Madam Wife? I’m called to the busy marts—and all that sort of thing.” Embury rose from the table, a big, tall man, graceful in his every motion, as only a trained athlete can be. Devoted to athletics, he kept himself in the pink of condition physically, and this was no small aid to his vigorous mentality and splendid business acumen.

“Wait a minute, San,” and for the first time that morning there was a note of timidity in Eunice’s soft voice. “Please give me a little money, won’t you?”

“Money, you grasping young person! What do you want it for?”

“Why—I’m going to Newark, you know—”

“Going to Newark! Yes, but you’re going in Hendricks’ car—that doesn’t require a ticket, does it?”

“No—but I—I might want to give the chauffeur something when I get out—”

“Nonsense! Not Hendricks’ chauffeur. That’s all right when you’re with formal friends or Comparative strangers—but it would be ridiculous to tip Hendricks’ Gus!”

Embury swung into the light topcoat held by the faithful Ferdinand.

“But, dear,” and Eunice rose, and stood by her husband, “I do want a little money,” she fingered nervously the breakfast napkin she was still holding.

“What for?” was the repeated inquiry.

“Oh, you see—I might want to do a little shopping in Newark.”

“Shop in Newark! That’s a good one! Why, girlie, you never want to shop outside of little old New York, and you know it. Shop in Newark!”

Embury laughed at the very idea.

“But—I might see something in a window that’s just what I want.”

“Then make a note of it, and buy it in New York. You have an account at all the desirable shops here, and I never kick at the bills, do I, now?”

“No; but a woman does want a little cash with her—”

“Oh, that, of course! I quite subscribe to that. But I gave you a couple of dollars yesterday.”

“Yes, but I gave one to a Red Cross collector, and the other I had to pay out for a C.O.D. charge.”

“Why buy things C.O.D. when you have accounts everywhere?”

“Oh, this was something I saw advertised in the evening paper—”

“And you bought it because it was cheap! Oh, you women! Now, Eunice, that’s just a case in point. I want my wife to have everything she wants—everything in reason, but there’s no sense in throwing money away. Now, kiss me, sweetheart, for I’m due at a directors’ meeting in two shakes—or thereabouts.”

Embury snapped the fastening of his second glove, and, hat in hand, held out his arms to his wife.

She made one more appeal.

“You’re quite right, San, maybe I didn’t need that C.O.D. thing. But I do want a little chickenfeed in my purse when I go out to-day. Maybe they’ll take up a collection.”

“A silver offering for the Old Ladies’ Home,—eh? Well, tell ‘em to come to me and I’ll sign their subscription paper! Now, good-by, Dolly Gray! I’m off!”

With a hearty kiss on Eunice’s red lips, and a gay wave of his hand to Aunt Abby, Embury went away and Ferdinand closed the door behind him.

“I can’t stand it, Aunt Abby,” Eunice exclaimed, as the butler disappeared into the pantry; “if Sanford were a poor man it would be different. But he’s made more money this year than ever before, and yet, he won’t give me an allowance or even a little bit of ready money.”

“But you have accounts,” Aunt Abby said, absently, for she-was scanning the paper now.

“Accounts! Of course, I have! But there are a thousand things one wants cash for! You know that perfectly well. Why, when our car was out of commission last week and I had to use a taxicab, Sanford would give me just enough for the fare and not a cent over to fee the driver. And lots of times I need a few dollars for charities, or some odds and ends, and I can’t have a cent to call my own! Al Hendricks may be of coarser clay than Sanford Embury, but he wouldn’ treat a wife like that!”

“It is annoying, Eunice, but Sanford is so good to you—”

“Good to me! Why shouldn’t he be? It isn’t a question of goodness or of generosity—it’s just a fool whim of his, that I mustn’t ask for actual cash! I can have all the parties I want, buy all the clothes I want, get expensive hats or knick-knacks of any sort, and have them all charged. He’s never even questioned my bills—but has his secretary pay them. And I must have some money in my purse! And I will! I know ways to get it, without begging it from Sanford Embury!”

Eunice’s dark eyes flashed fire, and her cheeks burned scarlet, for she was furiously angry.

“Now, now, my dear, don’t take it so to heart,” soothed Aunt Abby; “I’ll give you some money. I was going to make you a present, but if you’d rather have the money that it would cost, say so.”

“I daren’t, Aunt Abby. Sanford would find it out and he’d be terribly annoyed. It’s one of his idiosyncrasies, and I have to bear it as long as I live with him!”

The gleam in the beautiful eyes gave a hint of desperate remedies that might be applied to the case, but Ferdinand returned to the room, and the two women quickly spoke of other things.

Hendricks’ perfectly appointed and smooth-running car made the trip to Newark in minimum time. Though the road was not a picturesque one, the party was in gay spirits and the host was indefatigable in his efforts to be entertaining.

“I’ve looked up this Hanlon person,” he said, “and his record is astonishing. I mean, he does astonishing feats. He’s a juggler, a sword swallower and a card sharp—that is, a card wizard. Of course, he’s a faker, but he’s a clever one, and I’m anxious to see what his game is this time. Of course, it’s, first of all, advertisement for the paper that’s backing him, but it’s a new game. At least, it’s new over here; they tell me it’s done to death in England.”

“Oh, no, Alvord, it isn’t a game,” insisted Miss Ames; “if the man is blindfolded, he can’t play any tricks on us. And he couldn’t play tricks on newspaper men anyway—they’re too bright for that!”

“I think they are, too; that’s why I’m interested. Warm enough, Eunice?”

“Yes, thank you,” and the beautiful face looked happily content as Eunice Embury nestled her chin deeper into her fur collar.

For, though late April, the day was crisply cool and there was a tang in the bright sunshiny air. Aunt Abby was almost as warmly wrapped up as in midwinter, and when, on reaching Newark, they encountered a raw East wind, she shrugged into her coat like a shivering Esquimau.

“Where do we go to see it?” asked Eunice, as later, after luncheon, she eagerly looked about at the crowds massed everywhere.

“We’ll have to reconnoiter,” Hendricks replied, smiling at her animated face. “Drive on to the Oberon, Gus.”

As they neared the theatre the surging waves of humanity barred their progress, and the big car was forced to come to a standstill.

“I’ll get out,” said Hendricks, “and make a few inquiries. The Free Press office is near here, and I know some of the people there.”

He strode off and was soon swallowed up in the crowd.

“I think I see a good opening,” said Gus, after a moment. “I’ll get out for a minute, Mrs. Embury. I must inquire where cars can be parked.”

“Go ahead, Gus,” said Eunice; “we’ll be all right here, but don’t go far. I’ll be nervous if you do.”

“No, ma’am; I won’t go a dozen steps.”

“Extry! Extry! All about the Great Magic! Hanlon the Wonderful and his Big Stunt! Extry!”

“Oh, get a paper, Eunice, do,” urged Aunt Abby from the depths of her fur coat. “Ask that boy for one! I must have it to read after I get home—I can’t look at it now, but get it! Here, you—Boy—say, Boy!”

The newsboy came running to them and flung a paper into Eunice’s lap.

“There y’are, lady,” he said, grinning; “there’s yer paper! Gimme a nickel, can’t yer? I ain’t got time hangin’ on me hands!”

His big black eyes stared at Eunice, as she made no move toward a purse, and he growled: “Hurry up lady; I gotta sell some papers yet. Think nobuddy wants one but you?”

Eunice flushed with annoyance.

“Please pay him, Aunt Abby,” she said, in a low voice; “I—haven’t any money.”

“Goodness gracious me! Haven’t five cents! Why, Eunice, you must have!”

“But I haven’t, I tell you! I can’t see Alvord, and Gus is too far to call to. Go over there, boy, to that chauffeur with the leather coat—he’ll pay you.”

“No, thanky mum! I’ve had that dodge tried afore! Pity a grand dame like you can’t scare up a nickel! Want to work a poor newsie! Shame for ya, lady!”

“Hush your impudence, you little wretch!” cried Aunt Abby. “Here, Eunice, help me get my purse. It’s in my inside coat pocket—under the rug—there, see if you can reach it now.”

Aunt Abby tried to extricate herself from the motor rug that had been tucked all too securely about her, and failing in that, endeavored to reach into her pocket with her gloved hand, and became hopelessly entangled in a mass of fur, chiffon scarf and eyeglass chain.

“I can’t get at my purse, Eunice; there’s no use trying,” she wailed, despairingly. “Let us have the paper, my boy, and come back here when the owner of this car comes and he’ll give you a quarter.”

“Yes—he will!” shouted the lad, “and he’ll give me a di’mon’ pin an’ a gold watch! I’d come back, willin’ enough, but me root lays the other way, an’ I must be scootin’ or I’ll miss the hull show. Sorry!” The boy, who had no trouble in finding customers for his papers, picked up the one he had laid on Eunice’s lap and made off.

“Never mind, Auntie,” she said, “we’ll get another. It’s too provoking—but I haven’t a cent, and I don’t blame the boy. Now, find your purse—or, never mind; here comes Alvord.”

“Just fell over Mortimer!” called out Hendricks as the two men came to the side of the car. “I made him come and speak to you ladies, though I believe its holding up the whole performance. Let me present the god in the machine!”

“Not that,” said Mr. Mortimer, smiling; “only a small mechanical part of to-day’s doings. I’ve a few minutes to spare, though but a few. How do you do, Miss Ames? Glad to see you again. And Mrs. Embury; this brings back childhood days!”

“Tell me about Hanlon,” begged Miss Ames. “Is he on the square?”

“So far as I know, and I know all there is to know, I think. I was present at a preliminary test this morning, and I’ll tell you what he did.” Mortimer looked at his watch and proceeded quickly. “In at the Free Press office one of the men took a piece of chalk and drew a line from where we were to a distant room of the building. The line went up and down stairs, in and out of various rooms, over chairs and under desks, and finally wound up in a small closet in the city editor’s office. Well—and I must jump away now—that wizard, Hanlon, being securely blindfolded—I did it myself—followed that line, almost without deviation, from start to finish. Through a building he had never seers before, and groping along in complete darkness.”

“How in the world could he do it?” Aunt Abby asked, breathlessly.

“The chap who drew the line was behind him—behind, mind you—and he willed him where to go. Of course, he did his best, kept his mind on the job, and earnestly used his mentality to will Hanlon along. And did! There, that’s all I know, until this afternoon’s stunt is pulled off. But what I’ve told you, I do know—I saw it, and I, for one, am a complete convert to telepathy!”

The busy man, hastily shaking hands, bustled away, and Hendricks told in glee how, through his acquaintance with Mortimer, he had secured a permit to drive his car among the front ones that were following the performance, which was to begin very soon now.

Gus returned, and they were about to start when Aunt Abby set up a plea for a copy of the paper that she wanted.

Good-natured Gus tried his best, Hendricks himself made endeavors, but all in vain. The papers were gone, the edition exhausted. Nor could any one whom they asked be induced to part with his copy even at a substantial premium.

“Sorry, Miss Ames,” said Hendricks, “but we can’t seem to nail one. Perhaps later we can get one. Now we must be starting or we’ll soon lose our advantage.”

The crowd was like a rolling sea by this time, and only the efficiency of the fine police work kept anything like order.

Cautiously the motor car edged along while the daring pedestrians seemed to scramble from beneath the very wheels.

And then a cheer arose which proclaimed the presence of Hanlon, the mysterious possessor of second sight, or the marvelous reader of another’s mind—nobody knew exactly which he was.