Then on him also fell, as it seemed, the approaching
shadow of the grey man and he looked up with something
of a start into the keen eyes of Drew.
“Son,” said the big man, “you look
sort of familiar to me. I’m asking your
pardon, but who was your mother?”
The eyes of young Woodbury narrowed and the two stood
considering each other gravely for a long moment.
“I never saw her,” he said at last, and
then turned with a frown to work his way through the
crowd and back to his box.
The tall man hesitated a moment and then started in
pursuit, but the mob intervened. He turned back
to Werther.
“Did you get his name?” he asked.
“Fine bit of riding he showed, eh?” cried
the little man, “and turned down my thousand
as cool as you please. I tell you, Drew, there’s
some flint in the Easterners after all!”
“Damn the Easterners. What’s his
name?”
“Woodbury. Anthony Woodbury.”
“Woodbury?”
“What’s wrong with that name?”
“Nothing. Only I’m a bit surprised.”
And he frowned with a puzzled, wistful expression,
staring straight ahead like a man striving to solve
a great riddle.
SOCIAL SUICIDE
At his box, Woodbury stopped only to huddle into his
coat and overcoat and pull his hat down over his eyes.
Then he hurried on toward an exit, but even this slight
delay brought the reporters up with him. They
had scented news as the eagle sights prey far below,
and then swooped down on him. He continued his
flight shaking off their harrying questions, but they
kept up the running fight and at the door one of them
reached his side with: “It’s Mr.
Woodbury of the Westfall Polo Club, son of Mr. John
Woodbury of Anson Place?”
Anthony Woodbury groaned with dismay and clutched
the grinning reporter by the arm.
“Come with me!”
Prospects of a scoop of a sizable nature brightened
the eyes of the reporter. He followed in all
haste, and the other news-gatherers, in obedience
to the exacting, unspoken laws of their craft, stood
back and followed the flight with grumbling envy.
On Twenty-Sixth Street, a little from the corner of
Madison Avenue, stood a big touring car with the chauffeur
waiting in the front seat. There were still some
followers from the Garden.
Woodbury jumped into the back seat, drew the reporter
after him, and called: “Start ahead, Maclaren—drive
anywhere, but get moving.”
“Now, sir,” turning to the reporter as
the engine commenced to hum, “what’s your
name?”
“Bantry.”
“Bantry? Glad to know you.”
He shook hands.
“You know me?”
“Certainly. I cover sports all the way
from polo to golf. Anthony Woodbury—Westfall
Polo Club—then golf, tennis, trap shooting—”
“Enough!” groaned the victim. “Now
look here, Bantry, you have me dead to rights—got
me with the goods, so to speak, haven’t you?”
