href="@public@vhost@g@gutenberg@html@files@33565@[email protected]#XXXVI" tag="{http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml}a">CHAPTER XXXVI

I

They were discussing Huntington and Cosden when the two men entered the living-room of the Club and strolled toward the little group indulging itself in relaxation after a more or less strenuous afternoon at golf. It was natural, perhaps, that no one quite understood the basis upon which their intimacy rested, for entirely aside from the difference in their ages they seemed far separated in disposition and natural tastes. Cosden's dynamic energy had made more than an average golf-player of Huntington, and in other ways forced him out of the easy path of least resistance; the older man's dignity and quiet philosophy tempered the cyclonic tendencies of his friend. The one met the world as an antagonist, and forced from it tribute and recognition; the other, never having felt the necessity of competition, had formed the habit of taking the world into his confidence and treating it as a friend.

These differences could not fail to attract the attention of their companions at the Club as day after day they played their round together, but this was the first time the subject had become a topic of general conversation. The speaker sat with his back to the door and continued his remarks after the newcomers came within hearing, in spite of the efforts made by those around to suppress him. The sudden hush and the conscious manner of those in the group would have conveyed the information even if the words had not.

"So you're giving us the once over, are you?" Cosden demanded, dropping into a chair. "You don't mean to say that the golf autobiographies have become exhausted?"

"I never heard myself publicly discussed," added Huntington as he, too, joined the party. "I am already experiencing a thrill of pleasurable excitement. Don't stop. Connie and I are really keen to learn more of ourselves."

"Well," the speaker replied, with some hesitation, "there's no use trying to make you believe we were listening to Baker's explanation of how the bunkers have been located exactly where the golf committee knows his ball is going to strike—"

"Heaven forbid!" Huntington exclaimed; "but don't apologize. I congratulate the Club that the members are at last turning their attention to serious things. 'Tell the truth and shame the devil'—provided it is Connie, and not me, you are going to shame."

"Don't mind me in the least," Cosden added. "My hide is tough, and I rather like to be put through the acid test once in a while."

"Oh, it isn't as bad as all that," the speaker explained. "We love you both, but in different ways, yet we can't make out just where you two fellows hitch up. Now, that isn't lèse-majesté, is it?"

"What do you think, Connie?" Huntington asked, lighting his pipe. "Is that an insult or a compliment?"

"I don't see that it makes much difference from this crowd. We don't care what they say about us as long as they pay us the compliment of noticing us. That's the main point, and I'm glad we've been able to start something."

"But why don't you tell us?" insisted the speaker. "You aren't interested in anything Monty cares for except golf, and he hasn't even a flirting acquaintance with business, which is your divinity, yet you two fellows have formed a fine young Damon and Pythias combination which we all envy. Why don't you tell us how it happened?"

"I don't know," Cosden answered, serious at last and speaking with characteristic directness. "I never stopped to think of it; but if we're satisfied, whose concern is it, anyhow?"

"If friendship requires explanation, then it isn't friendship," added Huntington. "Connie contributes much to my life which would otherwise be lacking, and I hope that he would say the same of my relation to him."

"Of course—that goes without saying; but neither one of you is telling us anything. If you would explain your method perhaps we might become more reconciled to some of these misfits lying around the Club—like Baker over there—"

"We have a thousand members—" Baker protested.

"What has that to do with the present discussion?"

"Why pick on me?"

"Which is the misfit in my combination with Monty?" Cosden demanded.

"I'm not labeling you fellows," the speaker disclaimed—"I couldn't if I tried; but each of you is so different from the other that such a friendship seems inconsistent."

There was a twinkle in Huntington's eye as he listened to the persistent cross-examination. "We are bachelors," he said quietly. "That should explain everything; for what is a bachelor's life but one long inconsistency? If our friends were all alike what would be the need of having more than one? This friend gives us confidence in ourselves, another gives us sympathy; this friend gives us the inspiration which makes our work successful, another is the balance-wheel which prevents us from losing the benefit which success brings us. Each fills a separate and unique place in our lives, and, after all, the measure of our life-work is the sum of these friendships."

The two responses demonstrated the difference between the men. William Montgomery Huntington came from a Boston family of position where wealth had accumulated during the several generations, each steward having given good account to his successor. He had taken up the practice of law after being graduated from Harvard—not from choice or necessity, but because his father and his grandfather had adopted it before him. His practice had never been a large one, but the supervision of certain trust estates, handed over to his care by his father's death, entailed upon him sufficient responsibility to enable him to maintain his self-respect.

It would have been a fair question to ask what Montgomery Huntington's manner of life would have been if his father had not been born before him. He lived alone, since his younger brother married, in the same house into which the family moved when he was an infant in arms. Modern improvements had been introduced, it is true, in the building just as in the generation itself; but the walls were unchanged. The son succeeded to the father's place in directorates and on boards of trustees in charitable institutions, and he performed his duties faithfully, as his predecessor had done. Now, at forty-five, he had reached a point where he found it difficult to distinguish between his working and his leisure hours.

Cosden's heritage had been a healthy imagination, a robust constitution, and an unbelievable capacity for work. Even his uncle Conover, from whom he had a right to expect compensation for the indignity of wearing his name throughout a lifetime, had left him to work out his own salvation. His parents had never worn the purple, but, being sturdy, valuable