Then it was that Farbish dropped in with marching orders, and Samson,
yearning to be away where there were open skies, packed George
Lescott's borrowed paraphernalia, and prepared to leave that same night.
While he was packing, the telephone rang, and Samson heard Adrienne's
voice at the other end of the wire.
"Where have you been hiding?" she demanded. "I'll have to send a
truant officer after you."
"I've been very busy," said the man, "and I reckon, after all, you
can't civilize a wolf. I'm afraid I've been wasting your time."
Possibly, the miserable tone of the voice told the girl more than the
words.
"You are having a season with the blue devils," she announced. "You've
been cooped up too much. This wind ought to bring the ducks, and----"
"I'm leaving to-night," Samson told her.
"It would have been very nice of you to have run up to say good-bye,"
she reproved. "But I'll forgive you, if you call me up by long
distance. You will get there early in the morning. To-morrow, I'm going
to Philadelphia over night. The next night, I shall be at the theater.
Call me up after the theater, and tell me how you like it."
It was the same old frankness and friendliness of voice, and the same
old note like the music of a reed instrument. Samson felt so comforted
and reassured that he laughed through the telephone.
"I've been keeping away from you," he volunteered, "because I've had a
relapse into savagery, and haven't been fit to talk to you. When I get
back, I'm coming up to explain. And, in the meantime, I'll telephone."
On the train Samson was surprised to discover that, after all, he had
Mr. William Farbish for a traveling companion. That gentleman explained
that he had found an opportunity to play truant from business for a day
or two, and wished to see Samson comfortably ensconced and introduced.
The first day Farbish and Samson had the place to themselves, but the
next morning would bring others. Samson's ideas of a millionaires'
shooting-box had been vague, but he had looked forward to getting into
the wilds. The marshes were certainly desolate enough, and the pine
woods through which the buckboard brought them. But, inside the club
itself, the Kentuckian found himself in such luxurious comfort as he
could not, in his own mind, reconcile with the idea of "going hunting."
He would be glad when the cushioned chairs of the raftered lounging-
room and the tinkle of high-ball ice and gossip were exchanged for the
salt air and the blinds.