Her Weight in Gold | Page 8

heaved a tremendous sigh of decision and bravely crossed the
room. Martha was seated upon the davenport, nervously toying with
her fan. He saw with misgiving that she evidently expected something
was going to happen. Her eyes were downcast.
He stood silent and somewhat awed before her for many minutes,
taking the final puffs at an abbreviated cigarette. Then he abruptly sat
down at the opposite end of the couch. As he did so, she thought she
heard him mutter something about "one hundred and seventy, at the
lowest."
"So many people have given up playing golf, Mr. Ten Eyck," she said.
"I am surprised that you keep it up."
"Golf?" he murmured blankly.
"Weren't you speaking of your score for the eighteen holes?"
He gazed at her helplessly for a moment, then set his jaw.
"Say, Martha," he began, in a high and unnatural treble, "I am a man of
few words. Will you marry me? Oh! Ouch! What the dickens are you
doing? O--oh! Don't jump at me like that!"
The details are painful and it isn't necessary to go into them. Suffice it
to say, she told him that he had always been her ideal and that she had
worshipped him from childhood's earliest days. He, on the other hand,
confessed, with more truth than she could have guessed, that he had but
recently come to a realisation of her true worth, and what she really
meant to him.
She set the wedding day for November the eleventh,--just seven weeks
off.
Before leaving,--she kept him until nearly twelve,--he playfully came
up behind her as she stood near the table, and, placing his hands under
her elbows, said:

"Hold 'em stiff now."
Then, to her amazement, he tried to lift her from the floor. He couldn't
budge her.
"It's all right," he exclaimed exultantly and refused to explain.
That night in his dreams an elephant came along and stood for a while
on his chest, but he was used to it by that time, and didn't mind.
The next morning, General Gamble reported by telephone that Martha
weighed one hundred and sixty-eight pounds and nine ounces. A
minute later, Eddie was at his desk calculating.
On the twenty-third of September she weighed two thousand and
twenty- five ounces troy. At nineteen dollars and twenty cents an ounce
she was then worth $38,880. With any sort of luck, he figured, she
might be expected to pick up a few pounds as the result of her
new-found happiness and peace of mind. Her worries were practically
over. Contented people always put on flesh. If everything went well,
she ought to represent at least $40,000 on her wedding day. Perhaps
more.
He haunted the Country Club by day and the town clubs by night,
always preoccupied and figuring, much to the astonishment of his
friends and cronies. He scribbled inexplicable figures on the backs of
golf cards, bar checks, and menus.
By the end of the first week he had made definite promises to all of his
creditors. He guaranteed that every one should be paid before the
middle of November. Moreover, he set aside in his calculations the sum
of $7,000 for the purchase of a new house. Early in the second week he
had virtually expended $15,000 of what he expected to receive, and
was giving thanks for increased opportunities.
He called at the Gamble house regularly, even faithfully. True, he
urged Martha to play on the piano nearly all of the time, but to all
intents and purposes it was a courtship.

When the engagement was announced, the town--in utter ignorance of
the conspiracy--went into convulsions. The half-dozen old maids in
upper circles who had long since given up hope began to prink and perk
themselves into an amazing state of rejuvenation,--revival, you might
say. They tortured themselves with the hope that never dies. They even
lent money to impecunious gentlemen who couldn't believe their senses
and went about pinching themselves.
Eddie Ten Eyck's credit was so good that he succeeded in borrowing
nearly five thousand dollars from erstwhile adamantine sceptics.
One day the General met him in the street. The old soldier wore a
troubled look. "She's sick," he said without preamble. "Got pains all
over her and chills, too."
"Is it serious?" demanded Eddie.
"I don't know. Neither does the doctor. He's waiting for developments.
Took a culture to-day. She's in bed, however."
"SHE MUST NOT DIE," said Eddie, a desperate gleam in his eye. "I--
can't afford to have anything like that happen now. Can't she be
vaccinated?"
At the end of the second day thereafter it was known all over town that
Martha Gamble was ill with typhoid fever. She was running a
temperature of 104 degrees and two doctors had come up from New
York