Our next need is to entertain ourselves as best we can, in order that the time shall not pass too slowly.
I propose that we place this apple in the hands of Miss Garland.
It is no longer a fruit, but, as I said, a prize, in award, representing a great human idea.
Miss Garland, herself, shall cease to be an individual—but only temporarily, I am happy to add"—(a low bow, full of the old-time grace). "She shall represent her sex; she shall be the embodiment, the epitome of womankind—the heart and brain, I may say, of God's masterpiece of creation.
In this guise she shall judge and decide the question which follows:
"But a few minutes ago our friend, Mr. Rose, favoured us with an entertaining but fragmentary sketch of the romance in the life of the former professor of this habitation.
The few facts that we have learned seem to me to open up a fascinating field for conjecture, for the study of human hearts, for the exercise of the imagination—in short, for story-telling.
Let us make use of the opportunity.
Let each one of us relate his own version of the story of Redruth, the hermit, and his lady-love, beginning where Mr. Rose's narrative ends—at the parting of the lovers at the gate.
This much should be assumed and conceded—that the young lady was not necessarily to blame for Redruth's becoming a crazed and world-hating hermit.
When we have done, Miss Garland shall render the JUDGEMENT OF WOMAN.
As the Spirit of her Sex she shall decide which version of the story best and most truly depicts human and love interest, and most faithfully estimates the character and acts of Redruth's betrothed according to the feminine view.
The apple shall be bestowed upon him who is awarded the decision.
If you are all agreed, we shall be pleased to hear the first story from Mr. Dinwiddie."
The last sentence captured the windmill man.
He was not one to linger in the dumps.
"That's a first-rate scheme, Judge," he said, heartily. "Be a regular short-story vaudeville, won't it?
I used to be correspondent for a paper in Springfield, and when there wasn't any news I faked it.
Guess I can do my turn all right."
"I think the idea is charming," said the lady passenger, brightly.
"It will be almost like a game."
Judge Menefee stepped forward and placed the apple in her hand impressively.
"In olden days," he said, orotundly,
"Paris awarded the golden apple to the most beautiful." "I was at the Exposition," remarked the windmill man, now cheerful again, "but I never heard of it.
And I was on the Midway, too, all the time I wasn't at the machinery exhibit."
"But now," continued the Judge, "the fruit shall translate to us the mystery and wisdom of the feminine heart.
Take the apple, Miss Garland.
Hear our modest tales of romance, and then award the prize as you may deem it just."
The lady passenger smiled sweetly.
The apple lay in her lap beneath her robes and wraps.
She reclined against her protecting bulwark, brightly and cosily at ease.
But for the voices and the wind one might have listened hopefully to hear her purr.
Someone cast fresh logs upon the fire.
Judge Menefee nodded suavely.
"Will you oblige us with the initial story?" he asked.
The windmill man sat as sits a Turk, with his hat well back on his head on account of the draughts.
"Well," he began, without any embarrassment, "this is about the way I size up the difficulty: Of course Redruth was jostled a good deal by this duck who had money to play ball with who tried to cut him out of his girl.
So he goes around, naturally, and asks her if the game is still square.
Well, nobody wants a guy cutting in with buggies and gold bonds when he's got an option on a girl.
Well, he goes around to see her.
Well, maybe he's hot, and talks like the proprietor, and forgets that an engagement ain't always a lead-pipe cinch.
Well, I guess that makes Alice warm under the lacy yoke.
Well, she answers back sharp.
Well, he—"
"Say!" interrupted the passenger who was nobody in particular, "if you could put up a windmill on every one of them 'wells' you're using, you'd be able to retire from business, wouldn't you?"
The windmill man grinned good-naturedly.
"Oh, I ain't no Guy de Mopassong," he said, cheerfully.
"I'm giving it to you in straight American.
Well, she says something like this:
'Mr. Gold Bonds is only a friend,' says she; 'but he takes me riding and buys me theatre tickets, and that's what you never do.