His letters and 'phones about this supper came
from in town somewhere. Why, he's Chris Parker, the biggest hotel man in
the country. Nobody like him--he'd make the deadest hotel in the
loneliest hamlet pay in a month. Head of all the hotel organizations you
can count. Most original chap in the world. Doctor Austin was telling me
to-night about ordering him off for a rest because he'd put such a lot
of nerve tension into his schemes he was on the edge of a bad breakdown.
Well, well, you're mighty lucky if you've got him backing you. No other
man on earth could have got the Mercury Club up here to-night--a place
they'd never heard of."
So Tom was thinking. He was still thinking it when the motor car shot
away down the hill with its load, the physician calling back at his
ex-patient: "Don't get going too soon again, Parker! So far, so good,
but don't----"
The last words were lost in a final boom from West Peak.
Tom went slowly out upon the porch, feeling embarrassed and uncertain.
How could he ever express his gratitude to this mighty man of valour?
"Perkins" was sitting, as usual, astride the porch rail, the red light
of his cigar glowing against the dark background of the mountains where
the bonfires were dying to mere sparks.
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