CHAPTER XX

GONE

The steward (or the stew, as Townsend thenceforth called him) did not
attend the party. A preliminary tour of the grounds convinced him that
adventures of his particular kind were not to be found there. Dancing
was not in his line. Music (except the clamorous music of his own
voice) he did not care for. And he did not care to hear what Mrs. Wild
had to say about the Camp-fire movement.

To him the crucial part of the whole party was the eats and he lingered
near them like a faithful sentinel. The artistic quality of these
saved them from devastation. Those pyramids of luscious beauty could
not be denied by human hands without showing the indubitable signs of
vandalism. Their very splendor saved them.

It is true that he skilfully extracted an olive from the symmetrical
mound of chicken salad and took an almond and a macaroon and other
detached dainties that were not made sacred and secure by their own
architecture. But for the most part Pee-wee was faithful to his trust.
He knew his time would come. And then, oh, then, that proud tower of
interlaced sandwiches would look like Rheims Cathedral.

Thus an hour passed and the merry throng emerged upon the lawn and made
a direct assault upon the dancing platform, lured by strains of
irresistible music. Some strolled about but none out of the radius of
that melodious magnetism, and Pee-wee remained undisturbed on the
romantic isle of eats.