The Log of the Jolly Polly | Page 6

Farrell, I
thought, a trifle wistfully. "There's bathing, tennis, eight... bedrooms,
billiard-room, art gallery----"
"You told him that!" said Mrs. Farrell.
I was greatly at a loss. Their offer was preposterous, but to them, it was
apparently a perfectly possible arrangement. Nor were they acting on
impulse. Mrs. Farrell had admitted that for six months she had had me
"trailed." How to say "No" and not give offense, I found difficult. They
were deeply in earnest and I could see that Farrell, at least, was by
instinct generous, human, and kind. It was, in fact, a most generous
offer. But how was I to tell them tactfully I was not for sale, that I was
not looking for "ready-to-wear" parents, and that if I were in the market,
they were not the parents I would choose. I had a picture of life at
Harbor Castle, dependent upon the charity of the Farrells. I imagined
what my friends would say to me, and worse, what they would say
behind my back. But I was not forced to a refusal.
Mr. Farrell rose.
"We don't want to hurry you," he said. "We want you to think it over.
Maybe if we get acquainted----"
Mrs. Farrell smiled upon me ingratiatingly.
"Why don't we get acquainted now?" she demanded. "We're motoring
down to Cape May to stay three weeks. Why don't you come along--as
our guest--and see how you like us?"
I assured them, almost too hastily, that already was deeply engaged.
As they departed, Farrell again admonished me to think it over.
"And look me up at Dun's and Bradstreet's," he advised. "Ask 'em
about me at the Waldorf. Ask the head waiters and bellhops if I look
twice at a five spot!"
It seemed an odd way to select a father, but I promised.

I escorted them even to the sidewalk, and not without envy watched
them sweep toward the Waldorf in the High Flyer, 1915 model. I
caught myself deciding, were it mine, I would paint it gray.
I was lunching at the Ritz with Curtis Spencer, and I looked forward to
the delight he would take in my story of the Farrells. He would
probably want to write it. He was my junior, but my great friend; and as
a novelist his popularity was where five years earlier mine had been.
But he belonged to the new school. His novels smelled like a beauty
parlor; and his heroines, while always beautiful, were, on occasions,
virtuous, but only when they thought it would pay.
Spencer himself was as modern as his novels, and I was confident his
view of my adventure would be that of the great world which he
described so accurately.
But to my amazement when I had finished he savagely attacked me.
"You idiot!" he roared. "Are you trying to tell me you refused five
million dollars-- just because you didn't like the people who wanted to
force it on you? Where," he demanded, "is Cape May? We'll follow
them now! We'll close this deal before they can change their minds. I'll
make you sign to-night. And, then," he continued eagerly, "we'll take
their yacht and escape to Newport, and you'll lend me five thousand
dollars, and pay my debts, and give me back the ten you borrowed. And
you might buy me a touring-car and some polo ponies and--and--oh,
lots of things. I'll think of them as we go along. Meanwhile, I can't
afford to give luncheons to millionaires, so you sign for this one; and
then we'll start for Cape May."
"Are you mad?" I demanded; "do you think I'd sell my honor!"
"For five million dollars?" cried Spencer. "Don't make me laugh! If
they want a REAL novelist for a son they can adopt me!"
I replied with dignity that I would not disgrace the memory of my
parents.
"You have disgraced them!" retorted Spencer, "with your Musketeer
novels for infants. You need money. To get it you may be tempted to
write more novels. Here's your chance! Stop robbing the public, and
lead an honest life. Think of all the money you could give to the poor,
think of all the money you and I could lose at Monte Carlo!"
When he found I would not charter an auto-mobile and at once pursue
the Farrells he changed his tactics. If I would not go to Cape May, then,

he begged, I would go to Fairharbor. He asked that I would, at least,
find out what I was refusing. Before making their offer, for six months,
the Farrells had had me "looked up, " but, without knowing anything of
them, after a talk of ten minutes I had turned them down. "Was that,"
he asked, "intelligent? Was it fair to the Farrells?" He continued to
tempt me.