Read Online Once an Eagle by Anton Myrer - Free Book Online

him open-mouthed and idiotic, so he added: “And remember now: Mr. Riley is not to be served in this hotel in any capacity until Mr. Thornton gives express instructions to the contrary.” Still they gazed up at him speechless; Henry Vollmer’s glasses flashed in vacant discs of light. The temptation to laugh was enormous, but he beat it down. “You’d better get back to the bar, hadn’t you, Pop?”
    â€œYes, of course—right you are, son.” Pop turned around like a little snow-haired tin toy, bumping into the others, and began herding them on ahead of him. Back in the bar there was a muffled exclamation and then the voices:
    â€œCool as an icicle—”
    â€œCan you beat it!”
    â€œNerves of steel, that boy …”
    â€œNever even got up a sweat. Can you beat it!”
    Then Pop Ainslie said loudly and reverently: “Boys, the next round is on me. Not on the Grand Western. Not on Mr. Thornton. On me.” There was low laughter and then the delicate clink of a bottle neck against glass.
    Sam Damon went around behind the desk and sat down; took his handkerchief out of a hip pocket and mopped at his face and neck. From the open windows came the abortive crow of a rooster wakened prematurely. The air was redolent with spruce and roses and new-mown hay—a summer scent as heavy as wine, and at whose center lay the curious crystal calm evoked by the encounter. He’d done it; he’d obeyed that fierce inner voice, followed its first impulse and it had been exactly and solely the right move to make. He gripped his hands together; the sense of exultancy rose still higher. Down in the switchyard behind Clausen’s he could hear the soft chafing whine of steel rolling on steel, then the bumping concatenation as the empty car was coupled; and the hiss of released steam.
    â€¦I’ll go to Lincoln, he decided abruptly, borne on the flushed certainty of the moment. First chance I get. I’ll ask Ted for a company pass and take the train to Lincoln. And then by God we’ll see.
    Â 
    Lincoln was a big city with sidewalks and colored advertisements and department stores. There was a Civil War memorial in the middle of the square with a tall young infantryman standing at parade rest; he was wearing a full mustache like Mr. Verney’s, but no beard. There was a brand-new fire engine, all bright red and gleaming nickel; and Sam Damon could see two other engines through the open doors. There were fine houses every bit as grand as the Harrodsens’, set back from the street and bordered by hedges of privet clipped in the shape of battlements or lozenges and cones, or by shiny black wrought-iron fences of spearheads and fleurs-de-lis. Lincoln had high curbs of granite. There were automobiles, many of them; they raised clouds of dust that fell on his suit like powder. If this was Lincoln, imagine what Chicago was like. Or—or New York City …
    It was very hot, and he didn’t know where to go. The streets all looked alike, and cars and wagons kept tearing by in a steady stream. He came to a big plate-glass window and wandered up to it, pretending to look at the chairs and chests of drawers inside but actually studying his own reflection. He didn’t look very prepossessing, and it bothered him. He was wearing his father’s blue serge suit. Carl Damon had been heavier and a good two inches shorter than his son, and his mother had lengthened the sleeves and cuffs and taken in the trousers; but the outfit looked bulky and loose on him, and it was no day to be wearing anything this heavy, with the temperature up in the nineties. The shirt with its detachable collar had been his father’s too, but the tie, a navy blue with maroon and scarlet stripes, was his own: Peg had given it to him that past Christmas. He pulled down on the coat at the back so the collar wouldn’t ride up so far on his neck—then bending over ran thumb and