He could
never have kept his head if it had not been for young Haskins at his
elbow. Haskins was secretary of the Mercury Club and knew everybody. He
was a genial fellow, and if anybody attempted to tell Tom that a mistake
had been made, and certain reservations should have been for the first
or second table, instead of the third, Haskins would cut in with a joke
and have the murmurer appeased and laughing in a trice.
As for Perkins--but where was Perkins? Up to the last minute before the
first car arrived, Perkins had been in evidence enough--in fact, he had
been everywhere all day, personally supervising every detail, working
like a fiend himself and inspiring everybody else to work, proving
himself the ablest of generals and a perfect genius at effective
decoration. The Inn, inside and out, was a fairyland of light and
colour--even the sated eyes of the city people, accustomed to every
trick of effect in such affairs, were charmed with the picturesque
quality of the scene. But now Tom could see nothing of Perkins
anywhere.
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