A Sortnight of Folly

CONTENTS


A FORTNIGHT OF FOLLY.
THE TALE OF A SCULPTOR, by HUGH CONWAY
CARRISTON'S GIFT.




A FORTNIGHT OF FOLLY.


I.

The Hotel Helicon stood on a great rock promontory that jutted far out
into a sea of air whose currents and eddies filled a wide, wild valley
in the midst of our southern mountain region. It was a new hotel, built
by a Cincinnati man who founded his fortune in natural gas speculations,
and who had conceived the bright thought of making the house famous at
the start by a stroke of rare liberality.

Viewing the large building from any favorable point in the valley, it
looked like a huge white bird sitting with outstretched wings on the
gray rock far up against the tender blue sky. All around it the forests
were thick and green, the ravines deep and gloomy and the rocks tumbled
into fantastic heaps. When you reached it, which was after a whole day
of hard zig-zag climbing, you found it a rather plain three-story house,
whose broad verandas were worried with a mass of jig-saw fancies and
whose windows glared at you between wide open green Venetian shutters.
Everything look new, almost raw, from the stumps of fresh-cut trees on
the lawn and the rope swings and long benches, upon which the paint
was scarcely dry, to the resonant floor of the spacious halls and the
cedar-fragrant hand-rail of the stairway.

There were springs among the rocks. Here the water trickled out with a
red gleam of iron oxide, there it sparkled with an excess of carbonic
acid, and yonder it bubbled up all the more limpid and clear on account
of the offensive sulphuretted hydrogen it was bringing forth. Masses
of fern, great cushions of cool moss and tangles of blooming shrubs
and vines fringed the sides of the little ravines down which the
spring-streams sang their way to the silver thread of a river in the
valley.

It was altogether a dizzy perch, a strange, inconvenient, out-of-the-way
spot for a summer hotel. You reached it all out of breath, confused as
to the points of the compass and disappointed, in every sense of the
word, with what at first glance struck you as a colossal pretense,
empty, raw, vulgar, loud--a great trap into which you had been inveigled
by an eloquent hand-bill! Hotel Helicon, as a name for the place, was
considered a happy one. It had come to the proprietor, as if in a dream,
one day as he sat smoking. He slapped his thigh with his hand and sprang
to his feet. The word that went so smoothly with hotel, as he fancied,
had no special meaning in his mind, for the gas man had never been
guilty of classical lore-study, but it furnished a taking alliteration.

"Hotel Helicon, Hotel Helicon," he repeated; "that's just a dandy name.
Hotel Helicon on Mount Boab, open for the season! If that doesn't get
'em I'll back down."

His plans matured themselves very rapidly in his mind. One brilliant
idea followed another in swift succession, until at last he fell upon
the scheme of making Hotel Helicon free for the initial season to a
select company of authors chosen from among the most brilliant and
famous in our country.

"Zounds!" he exclaimed, all to himself, "but won't that be a darling old
advertisement! I'll have a few sprightly newspaper people along with
'em, too, to do the interviewing and puffing. By jacks, it's just the
wrinkle to a dot!"

Mr. Gaslucky was of the opinion that, like Napoleon, he was in the hands
of irresistible destiny which would ensure the success of whatever he
might undertake; still he was also a realist and depended largely upon
tricks for his results. He had felt the great value of what he liked to
term legitimate advertising, and he was fond of saying to himself that
any scheme would succeed if properly set before the world. He regarded
it a maxim that anything which can be clearly described is a fact. His
realism was the gospel of success, he declared, and needed but to be
stated to be adopted by all the world.

From the first he saw how his hotel was to be an intellectual focus;
moreover he designed to have it radiate its own glory like a star set
upon Mt. Boab.

The difficulties inherent in this project were from the first quite
apparent to Mr. Gaslucky, but he was full of expedients and cunning.
He had come out of the lowest stratum of life, fighting his way up to
success, and his knowledge of human nature was accurate if not very
broad.

Early in the summer, about the first days of June, in fact, certain
well-known and somewhat distinguished American authors received by
due course of mail an autograph letter from Mr. Gaslucky, which was
substantially as follows: