Phil Brent

“ Brenchfield shouted warningly.
Phil, only half alert, sprang aside. The iron-ringed hoofs flashed past him, one biting along his cheek and ripping it an eighth of an inch deep. Phil staggered to the wall, as the horse continued to plunge and rear in a paroxysm of madness. Her owner tried to pacify her, but he made little headway with the job.
95
“Good Lord, man! as a man working among horses don’t you know better than to hang around the flanks of one of her kind like that? If she had hit you, it would have been all day with you.”
Phil pulled himself together. ”

“ Phil stopped and looked across at him.
When Brenchfield was most pleasant, he knew that was the time for him to be most on his guard.
“It is more honest than some work I could name.”
“Poof!––any fool can be a smith. Why don’t you get into something worth while?”
“This suits me!”
“You’re devilish snappy, Phil. What the hell’s the matter with you, anyway? Can’t you be civil to Royce Pederstone’s customers? Do you want to turn away business?” ”

“ I know what a gal in trouble wants more ’n young fellows can.”
Ellen Clitheroe gave her hand to Armstrong in frank acceptance of his offer. He became the paternal element in our party, — he protecting her and she humanizing him.
We lighted our camp-fire and supped heartily. Except for Brent’s uneasy stir and unwilling moans, we might have forgotten the deadly business of that day.
We made the wounded man comfortable as might be with blankets, under the sheltering spruces. ”

“ I see Brent every step and every moment. He was a model comrade.
Camp-life tests a man thoroughly. Common toil, hardship, peril, and sternly common viaticum of pork, dough-cakes, and coffee sans everything, are a daily ordeal of good-nature. It is not hard for two men to be civil across a clean white tablecloth at a club. If they feel dull, they can study the carte; if spiteful, they can row the steward ”

“ The man continued to stand, growing more and more excited. Had he been a keener observer he would have seen that under Brent's suavity there was a scarcely hidden nervousness.
Finally Brent leaned over and spoke in a whisper, looking about as though the very walls might have ears.
"My dear fellow," he confided, "for some time I have been considering your water-motor. I will return the model to you—release the patent to the world."
He drew back to watch the effect on the aged inventor. Could it be that Brent was lying? Or was it fear? ”

“ She insisted upon her share of camp-duty; and her great gray eyes were often to be seen gravely fixed upon a frying-pan, or watching a roasting bird, as it twirled slowly before the fire, with a strip of pork featly disposed overhead to baste that succulent revolver; while Brent, poor fellow, lay upon the grass, wrapped in blankets, slowly accumulating force for the next day’s journey, and watched her with wonderment and delight that she could condescend to be a household goddess. ”

“ And what cared Phil if Brenchfield should be there? He had held his own before;––he could do it again. What counted all this hard work?––a puff of wind;––he was going to Eileen Pederstone’s. What matter it how the world wagged?––a tolling bell;––he would dance again with the dainty, little vision with the merry brown eyes, the twinkling feet and the ready tongue. Ho!––life was good; life was great! Life was heaven itself!
Come on! Fill the smithy and the yard with your 206 horses, and I’ll shoe all of them! Block the roads and the by-ways with your wagons and buggies ”

“ Brent leaned forward and spoke for the first time.
“Phyllis is not really your niece, is she, Miss Fields?”
Gale looked at him in surprise. This was a new angle! Phyllis not really Miss Fields’ niece? What did he mean?
Miss Fields stared at Brent. Her eyes had the hunted look of an animal caught in a trap.
“What do you mean?” she asked fearfully.
“You might as well tell us everything,” Brent pursued kindly. “We only want to help straighten matters out. Phyllis isn’t really your niece, is she?” he insisted. ”

“ She started. Surely that could not be Patricia Brent, secretary to a rising politician, that stylish-looking girl in black, with a large bunch of carnations. That red-haired creature with sparkling eyes and a colour that seemed to have caught the reflection of the carnations in her belt!
She entered the lounge at the foot of the stairs with increased confidence, and she was conscious that several men turned to look at her with interest. Then suddenly the bottom fell out of her world. There, standing in the vestibule, were Miss Wangle, Mrs. Mosscrop-Smythe, and Mr. Bolton. ”

“ But soberly, old fellow, I need peace after a life driven into premature foemanship. I need tranquillity to let my character use my facts. I want the bitter drawn out of me, and the sweet fostered. I yearn to be a lover.”
As he said this, we had approached the camp-fire. Jim Robinson, by this time quite at home, was making his accomplishments of use. He was debasing his audience with a vulgar song. The words and air jarred upon both of us.
“Nil humani a me alienum puto, I repeat,” said Brent, “but that foul stuff is not the voice of humanity. Let’s go look at the horses. ”

“ Brent murmured.
"Condemn! Why, sir, I admire him for it! I was early taught to love the truth and shame the devil!"
Brent laughed softly. He got a great deal of fun out of ragging the old gentleman a bit at times.
"If shaming the devil were all," he said; "but think of your neighbors!"
"I think of no one, sir!" The Colonel was fuming now, and glaring impartially at everything about him.
"Then I wonder you've got a friend left. But, all joking aside, I wouldn't take anything for Dale, and have really grown to like him a whole lot. If he could just get over giving me the creeps! ”

“ The sap in the stem of a young oak is worth all the orchids that ever were pampered. Paul Brent was fortunate in his happy drift into the simple and innocent life, with its elemental needs and primitive triumphs. He was to escape so much of the disillusionment of the years after the war, nor was he to become the victim of that strange physical apathy that flamed now and again into feverish erotism. Men had had the strong drink of an abnormal excitement snatched away from them. ”

“ Bimbo, who, all during the recital, had been edging nearer his idol, now crouched beside him, looking up into Phil’s face adoringly, even while he shook with fright.
“Seaweed,” muttered Jack Benton. “Now who, but you, would have thought of that, Phil? It’s a clever idea, all right.”
“It was a lucky one,” said Phil. “It sure had those maneaters guessing, all right. But now,” he added, going back to the danger which menaced them in the shape of Ramirez and his men, “we’ve got to get busy and hide the treasure. From what I saw last night, that gang of his won’t be held off much longer. ”

“ XI Brent went back to his hotel, to find the town clerk of Hathelsborough waiting for him in his private sitting room. His visitor, a sharp-eyed man whose profession was suggested in every look and movement, greeted him with a suavity of manner which set Brent on his guard.
“I am here, Mr. Brent,” said he, with an almost deprecating smile, “as—well, as a sort of informal deputation—very informal indeed.”
“Deputations represent somebody or something,” retorted Brent, in his brusquest fashion. “Whom do you represent?” ”

“ Clitheroe’s wagon.
“See,” said I; “there are those two gamblers again. I don’t like such foul vultures hanging about that friendless dove. They look villains enough for any outrage.”
“But they are powerless here.”
“In the presence of a steadier villany they tire. That foul Sizzum is quite sure of his prey. John Brent, what can be done? I do not know which I feel most bitterly for, the weary, deluded old gentleman, doubting his error, or that noble girl. Poor, friendless souls!” ”

“ Money meant escape. There were thousands who were mad for money.
Brent fell straight into the lap of nature, with a fresh handful of simple ideals ready to be sown, and he sowed them in Beaucourt and watered them with a happy, human sweat. He did not want to slack and talk and theorize; the days were too short for him. He loved the work of his hands, the simple sensations, the smell of the sawdust, the crisply-curled shavings his plane ripped from a plank, the new nails he hammered in, the paint, the clang of his hammer, the snoring of his saw, the smell of the soil. Life was good. ”

“ I caught the knife from Armstrong. I cut the thong of my girth. The heavy California saddle, with its macheers and roll of blankets, fell to the ground. I cut off my spurs. They had never yet touched Fulano’s flanks. He stood beside me quiet, but trembling to be off.
“Now Brent! up behind me!” I whispered,—for the awe of death was upon us.
I mounted. Brent sprang up behind. I ride light for a tall man. Brent is the slightest body of an athlete I ever saw. ”

“ Phil was almost convinced by the sincere ring in Brenchfield’s voice. He glanced into the latter’s face, but the Mayor’s eyes failed to play up to the sound he had put into his voice.
“Do you honestly mean all you say?” asked Phil.
“Every word of it!”
“Well,––since you have raised the white flag, here are my terms:––
“I don’t want a cent of your money. Sell out and turn every nickel you have over to somebody or some institution that needs it. Come with me before a magistrate and make an honest confession, and take your chance of a new start, like a man would do. ”

“ Brent swung at the upraised arm. The bar caught the forearm bones about two inches above the wrist, and he heard them crack. The knife fell; Bibi’s hand sagged over like the absurd stuffed hand of a dummy. But Brent’s gorge was rising over this filthy scramble, this savagery of animals in a cage. He steadied himself, brought the bar down over Bibi’s head, and saw him crumple to the floor.
Brent stood, staring. He felt sick, unsteady, a man who had got up to the neck in some foul ditch. There was no exultation in him, yet no pity. He had downed a mad beast, and he was grim and cautious. ”

“ Not long ago, I phoned Ben at his home in Nyack, New York. Red Quinlan, the television executive, had an idea for a series of literary shows to be called, “You Can’t Go 97Home Again.” He had talked to me about being narrator, and I in turn had suggested Ben Hecht for the first interview.
“Ben,” I said, “this is Stuart Brent. Do you remember me?”
There was a flat, “Yes,” as though he didn’t, really.
“I’m calling to tell you,” I said, “that we have a great idea for a TV show and I want to interview you for it. It’s called....” ”

“ Brent!” he exclaimed. “Delighted, my dear sir—charmed! Not often our humble roof is extended over a distinguished visitor. Take a chair, sir. No, stop—I have an idea.” He seized Brent by the lapel of his coat, and became whispering and mysterious. “Step outside,” he said. “Twelve o'clock—we'll go over to Bull's.”
“What's Bull's?” asked Brent, as they went out into the entry.
Peppermore laughed and wagged his finger.
“Bull's, sir?” he said. “Bull's? Center of all the gossip in Hathelsborough. ”

“ That plumpness had disappeared in France and Belgium, and Brent’s mental flabbiness followed it out of the German prison camp.
Brent happened to be in a “mixed camp” for the first few months, and he set himself to learn French. He attacked it with such fierceness and assiduity that Alphonse,—his pedagogue, a French waiter with a family in Soho,—accused him of being in love. It was a crude accusation, and Brent demolished it.
“I finished with that—five years ago.”
“No nice little French girl, Mister Beckett?”
“Not even a mam’selle. I want to be able to earn more money. Business—just business.” ”

“ And, indeed, among the heroic gentlemen of the riper time to come, I cannot dream that any will surpass in all the virtues and courtesies of the cavalier my friend John Brent, now dismounted and lying there wounded and patient.
Oranges before breakfast are good. There be who on awakening gasp for the cocktail. And others, who, fuddled last night, are limp in their lazy beds, till soda-water lends them its fizzle. ”

“ Brent half smiled as he felt a sneaking admiration for Crane. The son-of-a-bitch had a disarming quality of honesty. If he planned to knife you, he drove straight in, the knife held high.
"One of the disadvantages of being a negative personality, Senator," Brent murmured.
"Sure! You're about as negative as a charging grizzly," Crane snorted and headed for the door as though his air had been cut off.
After his bulk had vanished into the corridor, Brent turned a scowl on Marcia Holly. "And what are you snickering about."
She raised large blue, innocent eyes. "Me? I? Oh, golly. ”

“ A field ambulance car collected Paul Brent and carried him off to another village where he lay in a barn for half an hour, flushed and torpid, yet resenting the efforts of an orderly to make him drink hot cocoa. An officer came and examined him, a very quiet man with a big fair moustache and intelligent eyes. Ten minutes later Brent was put on a stretcher in one of the big Daimlers, with a card in a brown envelope fastened to one of the buttons of his greatcoat; there were two other patients in the car. The quiet officer climbed in and assured himself that Brent was well covered with blankets. ”

“ Brenchfield frowned, but ignored the opening.
“She’s a vicious devil. She takes turns like that occasionally when a stranger is near her.”
“You mean you give her turns like that occasionally?” put in Phil suggestively.
At that moment, Jim Langford sauntered round the smithy building into the yard.
“Hullo! A love-feast going on! What’s the argument, fellows? What have you been doing to your cheek, Phil?”
The Mayor growled.
“This blacksmith pal of yours thought he could shoe Beelzebub. She’s got a mad streak on and pretty nearly laid him out. ”