Mac is the Almanach de Gotha, the sexless maid-valet, the fichu-less chaperon of Duluth and Grand Republic and all the towns along the D. & T. C.; it were better socially to be cut by Dr. Sparrock and ignored by Mrs. Dedrick than to be unrecognized by Mac; and to call him “George” instead of “Mac” is to be admittedly an outer barbarian; and so far as Neil or his friends had ever known, he has no surname.

He greeted Neil with, “Mighty nice to have you traveling with us, Captain Kingsblood, sir. I hope to hear your injured limb is ameliorating, sir.”

“Yes, thanks, it’s a lot better, Mac.”

–-Kind of flattering to have Mac remember me. Mustn’t forget to tip him two bits.

“Would you like to see the Minneapolis morning paper, Captain, sir?”

“Oh, thank you, Mac.”

–-No, four bits. There’s an old darky that knows his place. Why can’t these young fools like Belfreda be considerate that way? Be just too bad if I hand Mac fifty or even seventy-five cents!

–-And of course it would go on my expense-account.

* * * * *

At the end of the journey, when Mac had brushed him off as though he was brushing him off, and had caressed him with, “Hope we’re going to have the honor of having you with us on your return trip, Captain, sir,” Neil solemnly handed him a dollar.

Farther down the car, as they came into the station, Old Hiram Sparrock growled at Mac, “Hey, you Machiavellian bastard, aren’t you going to hope you’ll have the honor of my riding back with you?”

“No, sir, General. You always make too much trouble—you and those ole pills.”

“Why, you gold-digging, uncle-tomming, old, black he-courtesan! Here’s a quarter, and you’re mighty lucky to get it.”

“I sure am, General. Big lot of money for doing nothing but look at you. Usually ain’t but fifteen cents. You make another stock-market killing, General?”

“None of your damn intrusive business. How many newspapers do you spy for?”

“All of ‘em, General. See you soon.”

Neither of them mentioned the fact that Old Hiram gave Old Mac fifty dollars every Christmas. The two relics of the lumber-land-iron feudalism of 1900 grinned at each other, and young Neil Kingsblood looked approvingly at their stock-company performance.

Chapter 11

Neil had fancied that the vague estrangement between his mother and her parents had come from Gramma Julie Saxinar’s habit of diminutively managing every one within range of her cackling and cheery voice. There had never been real hostility, but the family coolness had kept Neil from any great custom of intimacy with his grandparents.

But he did take one evening during his four-day official mission in Minneapolis to go out to Lake Minnetonka and call on the Saxinars.

At sixty-five, when he had retired from the telephone company (he was still living, at eighty-five), Edgar Saxinar had purchased something very tidy in the way of a one-story house. He had admirably described it in a letter: