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Page 27
"The O'Neills, in short, are a splendid pair of fellows with a rush of
Irish to the head. They give each other more admiration and affection
when they're apart and more trouble when they're together than any two
men I have ever known. Personally I think they're miserable apart and
hopeless together. However, I'm no judge. Five minutes of
concentration on their present problems fuddles my brain beyond the
point of intelligent logic.
"I must warn you that O'Neill senior is roving Heaven-knows-where in
search of your uncle's farm. Knowing him fairly well I am convinced
that he'll rove most of the way in a Pullman, though he distinctly said
not. He hopes to find at your farm a letter from your brother that
will furnish a clue. Whereupon, I take it, he'll rove forth again to
seek his son and patch up a regular ballyhoo of a quarrel that almost
disrupted the Holbein Club. You see, everybody insisted upon taking
both sides, with terrifying results.
"I pray Heaven that O'Neill senior may not find O'Neill junior, but
from now on I shall have a nervous conviction of the pair of them
quarreling all over the state of Pennsylvania. In view of a certain
sentimental indiscretion of mine in permitting O'Neill to read his
son's letter to me and find the postmark, I feel guilty and
apprehensive.
"Your brother, I should say, is just a little safer with Brian than he
would be anywhere else in the confines of the universe.
"I enclose a newspaper article on Kennicott O'Neill, written just after
he had acquired one of the medals that fly up at him wherever he goes.
It's fairly accurate.
"Sincerely,
"Garry Rittenhouse."
With the girl's soft eyes upon him, Kenny felt that he could not be
expected to read each word of the letter. He never did that anyhow.
He blurred through now with amazing speed, catching enough to gratify
and upset him. The letter, reminiscent of his penitential quest for
Brian, roused voices that he did not want to hear. Nor did he hear
them for long. Joan was holding out the clipping, her slender arm in
its fall of yellowed lace a thing to catch the eye of any Irishman whom
Fate for the good of the world of art had made a painter.
Kenny took the clipping to insure his future peace of mind. Yes, Garry
had displayed better judgment than, in the circumstances, might have
been expected. The article he saw at a glance was an excellent one and
truthful. He particularly liked the phrase "brilliant painter" and
hoped Garry had troubled to read the thing through himself before he
sent it. It might inspire him to quotation in the grill-room.
Nevertheless, Kenny, with the clipping in his hand, had a picturesque
moment of confusion.
"It--it's just the sort of thing we call a 'blurb,' Miss West!" he
protested.
"It says in print," said the girl, her eyes wide and direct, "what your
son wrote in his letter."
The heart of the lad! Kenny had a bad minute. Until with his quest
upon the back of him he remembered Peredur and felt better. Peredur
had gone in quest of the Holy Grail. And he had found fair ladies.
History, romance, legend, call it what you please, was merely repeating
itself with the hero again Celtic and chivalrous.
With Peredur for precedent Kenny laughed softly, his eyes a-twinkle.
"Ah, well," he said with a hint more of brogue than usual, "we've an
Irish saying that there never was a fool who hadn't another fool to
admire him! Trouble is," he added, saving himself and Brian with a
whimsical air of loyalty, "the lad is no fool!"
"It's helped so," said Joan, "to know that Don is with someone like
your son. I cried a great deal the first night but the next day there
was Brian's letter and Don's. And later this letter and you."
Kenny understood. Brian could thank him for arriving in time. The
mere sight of him had certified Brian's respectability and guaranteed
the runaway's welfare.
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