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<h2>CHAPTER XVI</h2> <h3>THE EXODUS</h3> Never had Mr. Cone put in such a summer! The lines in his forehead looked as if they had been made with a harrow and there were times when his eyes had the expression of a hunted animal. Pacifying disgruntled guests was now as much a part of the daily routine as making out the menus. In the halcyon days when a guest had a complaint, he made it aside, delicately, as a suggestion. Now he made a point of dressing Mr. Cone down publicly. In truth, baiting the landlord seemed to be in the nature of a recreation with the guests of The Colonial. Threats to leave were of common occurrence, and Mr. Cone longed to be once more in a position to tell them calmly to use their own pleasure in the matter. But what with high taxes, excessive wages, extensive improvements still to be paid for, prudence kept him silent. The only way in which he could explain the metamorphosis was that the guests were imbued with the spirit of discontent that prevailed throughout the world in the years following the war. The theory did not make his position easier, however, nor alter the fact that he all but fell to trembling when a patron approached to leave his key or get a drink of ice water at the cooler. As he lay awake wondering what next they would find to complain of, he framed splendid answers, dignified yet stinging, but when the time came to use them he remembered his expenses and his courage always failed him. In his heart, he felt that this could not go on forever—some day someone would speak just the right word and he would surprise them. He had come to listen with comparative equanimity to the statement that his hotel was badly managed, the service poor, and the food the worst served on the beach-front, but there was the very strong possibility that someone would inadvertently touch a sensitive nerve and he would "fly off the handle." When that happened, Mr. Cone dreaded the outcome. Such were conditions at The Colonial when the folders arrived announcing the opening of the Lolabama Ranch to tourists—the name meaning Happy Wigwam. Messrs. Macpherson and Fripp, it stated, were booking guests for the remainder of the season and urged those who had a taste for the Great Outdoors to consider what they had to offer. The folders created a sensation. They came in the morning after a night of excessive heat and humidity. The guests found them in their mail when, fishy-eyed and irritable, they went in to breakfast. A new elevator boy who had jarred them by the violence of his stops had not improved their tempers, therefore few of them failed to comment to Mr. Cone upon the increasing wretchedness of the service. While they fanned themselves and prophesied a day that was going to be a "scorcher" they read of a country where the nights were so cool that blankets were necessary, where the air was so invigorating that langour was unheard of, with such a variety of scenery that the eye never wearied. There were salt baths that made the old young again, big game in the mountains for the adventurous, fishing, with bait in untold quantities, saddle-horses for equestrians, innumerable walks for pedestrians, an excellent table provided with the best the market offered, and, finally, a tour of the Yellowstone Park under the personal guidance of the hosts of The Lolabama in a stage-coach drawn by four horses, by motor, or on horseback as suited their pleasure. Small wonder that life on The Colonial veranda suddenly looked tame after reading the folder and studying the pictures! Their discontent took the form of an increasing desire to nag Mr. Cone. Vaguely they held him responsible for the heat, the humidity, the monotony of the ocean, and their loss of appetite due to lack of exercise. On an impulse, Mr. Henry Appel, after consulting with his wife, got up abruptly and went inside for the purpose of having a plain talk with Mr. Cone. Mr. Cone, who was making out the weekly bills, pretended not to see him until he cleared his throat and said very distinctly: "May I have your attention, Mr. Cone?" Quaking, Mr. Cone stepped forward briskly and apologized. Ignoring the apology, Mr. Appel began impressively: "You cannot have failed to see, Mr. Cone, that my wife and I have been thoroughly dissatisfied this summer, as we have been at no great pains to conceal it. We have been coming here for twenty-two seasons, but we feel that we cannot put up with things any longer and are hereby giving you notice that next Thursday our room will be at your disposal." "Is it anything in particular—anything which I can remedy? Perhaps you will reconsider." Mr. Cone pleaded, looking from one to the other. "Last night—at dinner"—Mrs. Appel eyed him accusingly—"I found—an eyewinker—in the hard sauce." Mr. Cone stammered: "I'm v-very sorry—it was not my eyewinker—such things will happen—I will speak to the pastry cook and ask him to be careful——" Mr. Budlong, who had come in to lay his grievance before Mr. Cone, interrupted: "For two mornings Mrs. Budlong and myself have been awakened by the man with the vacuum cleaner who has wanted to work in our room before we were out of it. I should judge," he said, acidly, "that you recruit your servants from the Home for the Feeble-minded, and, personally, I am sick of it!" "It is almost impossible to get competent help," Mr. Cone protested. "The man shall be discharged and I promise you no further annoyance." Mr. Budlong, nudged by his wife, was not to be placated. "Our week is up Monday, and we are leaving." Miss Mattie Gaskett, encouraged by the conversation to which she had listened, declared with asperity: "There has been fuzz under my bed for exactly one week, Mr. Cone, and I have not called the maid's attention to it because I wished to see how long it would remain there. I have no reason to believe that it will be removed this summer. I am sure it is not necessary to tell you that such filth is unsanitary. I have decided that you can make out my bill at your earliest convenience." "But, Miss Gaskett——" She ignored the protesting hand which Mr. Cone, panic-stricken, extended, and made way for a widow from Baltimore, who informed him that her faucet dripped and her rocking-chair squeaked, and since no attention had been paid to her complaints she was making other arrangements. It was useless for Mr. Cone to explain that with the plumbers striking for living wages and the furniture repairers behind with their work, it had been impossible to attend immediately to these matters. Ruin confronted Mr. Cone as he argued and begged them not to act hastily. But something of the mob spirit had taken possession of the guests in front of the desk who stood and glowered at him, and his conciliatory attitude, his obsequiousness, only added to it. If nothing else had happened to strain Mr. Cone's self-control further, he and his guests might have separated with at least a semblance of good feeling, but the fatal word which he had feared in his forebodings came from Mrs. J. Harry Stott, who majestically descended the broad staircase carrying before her a small reddish-brown insect impaled on a darning-needle. She walked to the desk and presented it for Mr. Cone's consideration. It was a most indelicate action, but the knowledge that it was such did not lessen the horror with which the guests regarded it. Aghast, speechless, Mr. Cone, one of whose proudest boasts had been of the hotel's cleanliness, could not have been more shocked if he had learned that he was a leper. There were shudders, ejaculations, and a general determination to leave even sooner than anticipated. "Where did you find it?" Mr. Cone finally managed to ask hoarsely. "Walking on my pillow!" replied Mrs. Stott, dramatically. "And I think there are others! If you will see that my trunks get off on the 4:17 I shall be obliged to you." Mr. Cone knew it was coming. He felt the symptoms which warned him that he was going to "fly off the handle." He leaned over the counter. Mrs. Stott's eyes were so close together that, like Cyclops, she seemed to have but one, and they had the appearance of growing even closer as Mr. Cone looked into them. "Do not give yourself any concern on that score, madam. Your trunks will be at the station as soon as they are ready and it will please me if you will follow them. "For twelve years I have been pretending not to know that you used the hotel soap to do your washing in the bath-tub, and it is a relief to mention it to you. "And, Miss Gaskett," the deadly coldness of his voice made her shiver, "I doubt if the fuzz under your bed has troubled you as much as the fact that for three summers your cat has had kittens in the linen closet has annoyed me." The Baltimore widow had his attention: "It is possible that the drip from your faucet and the squeak in your rocking-chair gets on your nerves, my dear lady, but not more than your daily caterwauling on the hotel piano gets on mine. "I shall miss your check, certainly, Mr. Appel, but not nearly so much as I shall enjoy the relief from listening to the story of the way you got your start as a 'breaker-boy' in the coal region." He bowed with the irony of Mephistopheles to Mrs. Budlong: "Instead of discharging the man with the vacuum cleaner, I shall give him for his large family the cake and fruit you would have carried away from the table in your capacious pocket if you had been here." His eyes swept them all. He would have given Mr. Budlong his attention, but that person's vanishing back was all he could see of him, so he turned to the others and shouted: "Go! The sooner the better. Get out of my sight—the lot of you! I'm going to a rest cure!" His hand travelled toward the potato he used as a pen-wiper and there was something so significant in the action when taken in connection with his menacing expression that, without a word, they obeyed him. <hr class="major" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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