Produced by Distributed Proofreaders
1907
In the dull hot dusk of a summer's day a green touring-car, swingingout of the East Drive, pulled up smartly, trembling, at the edge of theFifty-ninth Street car-tracks, then more sedately, under thedispassionate but watchful eye of a mounted member of the TrafficSquad, lurched across the Plaza and merged itself in the press ofvehicles south-bound on the Avenue.
Its tonneau held four young men, all more or less disguised in dust,dusters and goggles; forward, by the side of the grimy and anxious-eyedmechanic, sat a fifth, in all visible respects the counterpart of hiscompanions. Beneath his mask, and by this I do not mean his goggles,but the mask of modern manner which the worldly wear, he was, and is,different.
He was Daniel Maitland, Esquire; for whom no further introductionshould be required, after mention of the fact that he was, and remains,the identical gentleman of means and position in the social andfinancial worlds, whose somewhat sober but sincere and whole-heartedparticipation in the wildest of conceivable escapades had earned himthe affectionate regard of the younger set, together with the sobriquetof "Mad Maitland."
His companions of the day, the four in the tonneau, were in that humorof subdued yet vibrant excitement which is apt to attend the conclusionof a long, hard drive over country roads. Maitland, on the other hand,(judging him by his preoccupied pose), was already weary of, if notbored by, the hare-brained enterprise which, initiated on the spur ofan idle moment and directly due to a thoughtless remark of his own, hadbrought him a hundred miles (or so) through the heat of a broilingafternoon, accompanied by spirits as ardent and irresponsible as hisown, in search of the dubious distraction afforded by the night side ofthe city.
As, picking its way with elephantine nicety, the motor-car progresseddown the Avenue—twilight deepening, arcs upon their bronze columnsblossoming suddenly, noiselessly into spheres of opalescentradiance—Mr. Maitland ceased to respond, ceased even to give heed, tothe running fire of chaff (largely personal) which amused hiscompanions. Listlessly engaged with a cigarette, he lounged upon thegreen leather cushions, half closing his eyes, and heartily wishedhimself free for the evening.
But he stood committed to the humor of the majority, and lackedentirely the shadow of an excuse to desert; in addition to which he wasaltogether too lazy for the exertion of manufacturing a lie ofserviceable texture. And so he abandoned himself to his fate, eventhough he foresaw with weariful particularity the programme of thecoming hours.
To begin with, thirty minutes were to be devoted to a bath and dressingin his rooms. This was something not so unpleasant to contemplate. Itwas the afterwards that repelled him: the dinner at Sherry's, thesubsequent tour of roof gardens, the late supper at a club, and then,prolonged far into the small hours, the session around somegreen-covered table in a close room reeking with the fumes of goodtobacco and hot with the fever of gambling….
Abstractedly Maitland frowned, tersely summing up: "Beastly!"—in anundertone.
At this the green car wheeled abruptly round a corner belowThirty-fourth Street, slid half a block or more east, and came to apalpitating halt. Maitland,