CONSPIRATORS
Early in February came Arkwright's appearance at the Boston Opera House--the first since he had sung there as a student a few years before.
He was an immediate and an unquestioned success.
His portrait adorned the front page of almost every Boston newspaper the next morning, and captious critics vied with each other to do him honor. His full history, from boyhood up, was featured, with special emphasis on his recent triumphs in New York and foreign capitals. He was interviewed as to his opinion on everything from vegetarianism to woman's suffrage; and his preferences as to pies and pastimes were given headline prominence. There was no doubt of it.
Mr. M. J. Arkwright was a star.
All Arkwright's old friends, including Billy, Bertram, Cyril, Marie, Calderwell, Alice Greggory, Aunt Hannah, and Tommy Dunn, went to hear him sing; and after the performance he held a miniature reception, with enough adulation to turn his head completely around, he declared deprecatingly. Not until the next evening, however, did he have an opportunity for what he called a real talk with any of his friends; then, in Calderwell's room, he settled back in his chair with a sigh of content.
For a time his own and Calderwell's affairs occupied their attention; then, after a short pause, the tenor asked abruptly:
``Is there anything--wrong with the Henshaws, Calderwell?''
Calderwell came suddenly erect in his chair.
``Thank you! I hoped you'd introduce that subject; though, for that matter, if you hadn't, I should. Yes, there is--and I'm looking to you, old man, to get them out of it.''
``I?'' Arkwright sat erect now.
``Yes.''
``What do you mean?''
``In a way, the expected has happened--
though I know now that I didn't really expect it to happen, in spite of my prophecies. You may remember I was always skeptical on the subject of Bertram's settling down to a domestic hearthstone.
I insisted 'twould be the turn of a girl's head and the curve of her cheek that he wanted to paint.''
Arkwright looked up with a quick frown.
``You don't mean that Henshaw has been cad enough to find another--''
Calderwell threw up his hand.
``No, no, not that! We haven't that to deal with--yet, thank goodness! There's no woman in it. And, really, when you come right down to it, if ever a fellow had an excuse to seek diversion, Bertram Henshaw has--poor chap! It's just this. Bertram broke his arm again last October.''
``Yes, so I hear, and I thought he was looking badly.''
``He is. It's a bad business. 'Twas improperly set in the first place, and it's not doing well now. In fact, I'm told on pretty good authority that the doctor says he probably will never use it again.''
``Oh, by George! Calderwell!''
``Yes. Tough, isn't it? 'Specially when you think of his work, and know--as I happen to--that he's particularly dependent on his right hand for everything. He doesn't tell this generally, and I understand Billy and the family know nothing of it--how hopeless the case is, I mean. Well, naturally, the poor fellow has been pretty thoroughly discouraged, and to get away from himself he's gone back to his old Bohemian habits, spending much of his time with some of his old cronies that are none too good for him--Seaver, for instance.''
``Bob Seaver? Yes, I know him.'' Arkwright's lips snapped together crisply.
``Yes. He said he knew you. That's why I'm counting on your help.''
``What do you mean?''
``I mean I want you to get Henshaw away from him, and keep him away.''
Arkwright's face darkened with an angry flush.
``Great Scott, Calderwell! What are you talking about? Henshaw is no kid to be toted home, and I'm no nursery governess to do the toting!''
Calderwell laughed quietly.
``No; I don't think any one would take you for a nursery governess, Arkwright, in spite of the fact that you are still known to some of your friends as `Mary Jane.' But you can sing a song, man, which will promptly give you a through ticket to their innermost sacred circle. In fact, to my certain knowledge, Seaver is already planning a jamboree with you at the right hand of the toastmaster. There's your chance. Once in, stay in--long enough to get Henshaw out.''
``But, good heavens, Calderwell, it's impossible!
What can I do?'' demanded Arkwright, savagely. ``I can't walk up to the man, take him by the ear, and say: `Here, you, sir--march home!' Neither can I come the `I-am-holier-than-thou' act, and hold up to him the mirror of his transgressions.''
``No, but you can get him out of it _some_ way.
You can find a way--for Billy's sake.''
There was no answer, and, after a moment, Calderwell went on more quietly.
``I haven't seen Billy but two or three times since I came back to Boston--but I don't need to, to know that she's breaking her heart over something. And of course that something is--Bertram.''
There was still no answer. Arkwright got up suddenly, and walked to the window.
``You see, I'm helpless,'' resumed Calderwell.
``I don't paint pictures, nor sing songs, nor write stories, nor dance jigs for a living--and you have to do one or another to be in with that set.
And it's got to be a Johnny-on-the-spot with Bertram. All is, something will have to be done to get him out of the state of mind and body he's in now, or--''
Arkwright wheeled sharply.
``When did you say this jamboree was going to be?'' he demanded.
``Next week, some time. The date is not settled.
They were going to consult you.''
``Hm-m,'' commented Arkwright. And, though his next remark was a complete change of subject, Calderwell gave a contented sigh.
If, when the proposition was first made to him, Arkwright was doubtful of his ability to be a successful ``Johnny-on-the-spot,'' he was even more doubtful of it as the days passed, and he was attempting to carry out the suggestion.
