The gratified president of the Pleasure Club had occasion to expand his
chest with just pride. Jauntily twirling his silky mustaches, he
pushed his way through the jostling, good-natured crowd already surging
toward the entrance of the hall, and stepped briskly forth along the
moonlit road toward the Herndon home, where the fair queen of the
revels awaited his promised escort. It was his hour of supreme
triumph, and his head swam with the delicious intoxication of
well-earned success, the plaudits of his admirers, and the fond
anticipation of Miss Spencer's undoubted surprise and gratitude. His,
therefore, was the step and bearing of a conqueror, of one whose cup
was already filled to the brim, and running over with the joy of life.
The delay incident to the completion of an elaborate toilet, together
with the seductive charms of a stroll through the moon-haunted night
beneath the spell of bright eyes and whispered words, resulted in a
later arrival at the scene of festivities than had been intended. The
great majority of the expected guests had already assembled, and were
becoming somewhat restless. No favored courtier ever escorted beloved
queen with greater pride or ceremony than that with which Mr. Moffat
led his blushing charge through the throng toward her chair of state.
The murmuring voices, the admiring eyes, the hush of expectancy, all
contributed to warm the cockles of his heart and to color his face with
the glow of victory. Glancing at his companion, he saw her cheeks
flushed, her head held proudly poised, her countenance evidencing the
enjoyment of the moment, and he felt amply rewarded for the work which
had produced so glorious a result. A moment he bent above her chair,
whispering one last word of compliment into the little ear which
reddened at his bold speech, and feasting his ardent eyes upon the
flushed and animated countenance. The impatient crowd wondered at the
nature of the coming ceremony, and Mr. Moffat strove to recall the
opening words of his introductory address.
Suddenly his gaze settled upon one face amid the throng. A moment of
hesitation followed; then a quick whisper of excuse to the waiting
divinity in the chair, and the perturbed president pressed his way
toward the door. Buck Mason stood there on guard, carelessly leaning
against the post, his star of office gleaming beneath the light.
"Buck," exclaimed Moffat, "how did that feller McNeil, and those other
cow-punchers, get in here? You had your orders."
Mason turned his quid deliberately and spat at the open door. "You bet
I did, Jack," he responded cheerfully, yet with a trifle of
exasperation evident in his eyes. "And what's more, I reckon they was
obeyed. There ain't nobody got in yere ternight without they had a
cyard."