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To my wife, Sharon, for everything.
– John
To my wonderful wife Susan, and our children, Grace, Anthony, Adam, Lily, EJ, and Peter IV.
Your continued love and support keep me going as always.
– Pete
xiii
xiv CONTENTS
2.4 Expressions 51
Arithmetic Operators 51
Operator Precedence 52
Increment and Decrement Operators 56
Assignment Operators 57
3.3 Packages 83
The import Declaration 84
Conversions940
Arcs970
CO N T E N T S xxvii
Images974
Fonts976
Index 1037
Credits
xxix
xxx C REDITS
Mrs. Atchison and Ardmore had given their last touches to the
preparations for the dinner. Every window of the great house shone
and a myriad of lanterns illuminated the lawns and terraces. The
flags of North and South Carolina were everywhere entwined; nor
were the stars and stripes neglected. They surveyed the long table in
the dining-room, where gold and silver and crystal were bright upon
the snowy napery.
“The matter of precedence is serious, Tommy,” urged Mrs. Atchison.
“I cannot for the life of me remember what two monarchs do about
entering a room at the same time.”
“Nor do I, Nellie,” said Ardmore; “unless they sprint for the door, and
the one who gets through first takes the head of the table. Still, that
would be undignified, particularly if the kings were old and fat, and if
they bumped going through the door and took a header it would jar
the divine right.”
“Here in democratic America,” said Griswold, joining them, “there
can be no such preposterous idea of precedence.”
“I should think better of that notion, Professor Griswold,” laughed
Mrs. Atchison, “if I had never seen the goats carefully shepherded to
keep them away from the lambs at functions in Washington.
Democracy may be a political triumph, but it is certainly deficient
socially. Personally I have always wished to bring myself in touch
with the poor. Ardy is quite right that our own kind are distinctly
uninteresting.”
“You ought to remember, Nellie, that your idea of going slumming in
a purple coupé and dressed up in your best rags is not well
calculated to inspire confidence and affection among the submerged.
But how to handle two governors has me fussed. You are the
hostess, and it’s for you to decide which excellency shall take you in.
I see no way out but to match for it.”
“That will be unnecessary,” said Mrs. Atchison, “for the doors and the
hall are broad enough for a dozen governors to march in abreast.”
“That would never do, Nellie! You don’t understand these things. You
can’t hitch up a brace of American governors in a team and drive
them like a pair of horses. At least, speaking for the Old North State,
I will say that we can never consent to any such compromise.”
“And I, speaking for the great Palmetto Commonwealth, not less
emphatically reject the idea!” declared Griswold.
“Then,” said Mrs. Atchison, “there is only one possible solution.
When the rest of us have entered the dining-room and taken our
places, a bugle will sound; the governor of North Carolina shall enter
from the north door; the governor of South Carolina from the south
door, and advance to seats facing each other midway of the table.
Professor Griswold, you are an old friend of the family, and you shall
yourself take me in to dinner.”
The members of Mrs. Atchison’s house party, well distributed among
the official guests, were still somewhat at a loss to know what had
happened, but it seemed to be in the air that Tommy Ardmore had at
last done something, though just what was not wholly clear. It was
sufficiently obvious, however, that the little girl with blue eyes who
had the drollest possible way of talking, and whom one never
seemed able to take off guard, had seized strong hold upon the
master of Ardsley; and she, on her part, treated him with the most
provoking condescension. It was agreed by all that Miss Osborne
was distinguished and lovely and that Professor Griswold did not
seem out of place at her side.
The talk grew general after the first restraint was over, and Mrs.
Atchison dropped just the right word here and there to keep the ball
rolling. Governor Osborne had generously forgotten and forgiven his
painful incarceration in the corn-crib, and he and Governor
Dangerfield vied with each other in avowing their determination to
live up to the high standards that had been set for them by their
daughters.
Both governors had at almost the same moment turned down their
glasses. It even seemed that they had been drilled in the part, so
dexterous were they in reversing them, so nimbly did they put from
them the hope of wine. The members of the house party noted this
act of the two governors with well-bred surprise; and Ardmore was
grieved, feeling that in some measure the illustrious guests were
criticising his hospitality. The butler at this moment spoke to him, and
much relieved he smiled and nodded. A moment later two jugs, two
little brown jugs, were carried in, and one was placed quietly in front
of each governor at precisely the same moment. Expectation was
instantly a-tiptoe.
“Gentlemen,” said Ardmore, addressing the governors, “these jugs
have just been left at the house by our old friend, Mr. Bill
Appleweight, alias Poteet, with his compliments, for the governors of
the two greatest states in the Union. I note that there’s a bit of pink
calico around the stopper of Governor Dangerfield’s jug, while
Governor Osborne’s is garnished with blue and white gingham.”
Governor Osborne rose.
“In politics,” he began, resting his hand gently on the jug, “it would be
a fine thing if we could all live up to our noblest ideals, but
unfortunately we must be all things to all men. What I have here is
not merely the testimonial of a valued constituent, but something
much subtler than that, ladies and gentlemen—a delicate proof that
those of us who would command the good-will and suffrages of the
people must keep a careful eye on the weather-vane. This jug, which
you probably all believe contains the rude product of some hidden
still, is as equivocal as a political platform. I will illustrate my
meaning.”
All eyes were bent upon the governor of South Carolina as he picked
up the jug, twisted the cob stopper for a moment, and then poured
into a tumbler which the butler placed for him a clear white fluid;
then, turning the stopper slightly, he poured into another glass a thick
milk-like liquid.
“When among my constituents I almost invariably call for a gourd for
drinking purposes in preference to a tumbler; but in this company I
shall abandon a custom of the plain people and yield to the habits of
the sons of Mammon. I am here, I take it, once more in my official
capacity as governor of South Carolina, and as I am not one to
offend the best sentiments of my people, I pledge you, my friends,
not in the untaxed corn whisky of Appleweight’s private still, but in
the excellent and foamy buttermilk of Mrs. Appleweight’s homely
churn.”
As he concluded, Governor Dangerfield rose and performed exactly
the same solemn rite with the jug before him, pouring whisky into
one glass, buttermilk into the other, and leaning across the table he
touched his tumbler of buttermilk to that extended by Governor
Osborne. When the applause that greeted this exchange of
courtesies had subsided, Governor Dangerfield was still standing,
and in a quiet conversational tone, and with a manner engagingly
frank, he said:
“Before it seemed expedient to follow the reform bandwagon, I held
certain principles touching the drinking habit. But the American bar
has destroyed drinking as a fine art, and it has now become a vulgar
habit. In the good old times no gentleman ever jumped at his liquor.
He took it with a casual air, even with a sanctifying reluctance. The
idea of rushing into a public place and gulping your liquor is
repugnant to the most primary of the instincts that govern gentlemen.
To precipitate a gill of applejack into that most delicate organism, the
human stomach, without the slightest warning, is an insult to the
human body—ay, more, it is an outrage upon man’s very soul. The
aim of liquor, ladies and gentlemen, is to stay and lift the spirit, not to
degrade it. Drinking at proper intervals ceased to be respectable at a
fixed date in human progress—to be exact, at the moment when it
was no longer a mere incident of personal or social recreation but
had become a sociological and political issue, staggering drunkenly
under a weary burden of most painful statistics.”
“You are eminently right, Governor Dangerfield,” said the governor of
South Carolina, helping himself to the salted almonds; “but you have
used a phrase which piques my curiosity. Will you kindly enlighten us
as to how you interpret proper intervals?”
“With greatest pleasure,” responded Governor Dangerfield. “I
remember, as though it were yesterday, my venerable grandfather
saying that no gentleman should ever approach the sideboard
oftener than once before breakfast, and he was himself a very early
riser. I discount this, however, because he always slept with a jug of
Cuban rum—the annual offering of a West Indian friend—easily
within his reach at the head of his bed. It was his practice for years
to sip a little rum and water while he shaved. He was a gentleman if
ever I knew one, and as I look upon him as a standard authority in all
matters of deportment and morals, I may safely cite him further in
answer to your question.
“During the long open season in our country my grandfather
constantly rode over the plantation in immaculate white duck,
followed by a darky on a mule carrying a basket. On our ancestral
estate there were many springs giving the purest and coldest of
water, and these were providentially scattered at the most
convenient intervals for my grandfather’s comfort. And as a slight
return to nature for what she had done for him in this particular, my
grandfather, in his early youth, had planted mint around all these
springs. I need hardly point out the advantages of this happiest of
combinations—a spring of clear, icy water; the pungent bouquet of
lush mint; the ample basket borne by a faithful negro, and my
grandfather, in his white duck suit and a Panama hat a yard wide,
seated by the mossy spring, selecting with the most delicate care the
worthiest of the fragrant leaves.
“Now”—and Governor Dangerfield smiled—“I can see that you are
all busy guessing at the number of stops made by my grandfather in
the course of a day, and I hasten to satisfy your curiosity. My
grandfather always started out at six o’clock in the morning, and the
springs were so arranged that he had to make six stops before noon,
and four in the afternoon; but at five o’clock, when he reached home
all fagged out by a hard day’s work and sorely needing refreshment,
a pitcher of cherry bounce was waiting for him on the west gallery of
the house. After that he took nothing but a night-cap on retiring for
the night. To my friend, the governor of South Carolina, I need offer
no apologies for my grandfather, once a senator in Congress, and a
man distinguished for his sobriety and probity. He was an upright
man and a gentleman, and died at ninety-two, full of years and
honours, and complaining, almost with his last breath, of a
distressing dusty feeling in the throat.”
When, as time passed, it seemed that every one had told a story or
made a speech, it was Ardmore’s inspiration that Griswold should
sing a song. The associate professor of admiralty in the University of
Virginia had already pledged the loyalty of his state to her
neighbours and twin sisters, the Carolinas, and Barbara, who wore a
great bunch of her own white roses, had listened to him with a new
respect and interest, for he spoke well, with the special grace of
speech that men of his state have, and with little turns of humour that
kept the table bubbling merrily.
“I shall comply with your request, my friends, if you can bear with the
poor voice of one long out of tune, and if our host still has in the
house a certain ancient guitar I remember from old times. But I must
impose one condition, that I shall not again in this place be called by
my academic title. I have known wars and the shock of battle along
the Raccoon”—here his hand went to his lips in the gesture that had
so often distressed Ardmore—“and I have known briefly the joy of a
military title. Miss Osborne conferred on me in an emergency the
noble title of major, and by it I demand hereafter to be known.”
The governor of South Carolina was promptly upon his feet.
“Henry Maine Griswold,” he said in his most official manner, “I
hereby appoint you a major on my staff with all the rights, privileges,
and embarrassments thereunto belonging, and you shall to-morrow
attend me personally in my inspection of our troops in the field.”
As the guitar was placed in Griswold’s hands, Ardmore caused all
the lights to be turned out save those on the table. In the soft candle-
glow Ardmore bent his face upon Jerry, who had been merrily
chaffing him at intervals, but who feigned at other times an utter
ignorance of his presence on earth. As Griswold’s voice rose in the
mellow dusk it seemed to Ardmore that the song spoke things he
could not, like his friend, put into utterance, and something fine and
sweet and hallowed—that sweet sabbath of the soul that comes with
first love—possessed him, and he ceased looking at Jerry, but bent
his head and was lost in dreams. For the song and the voice were
both beyond what the company had expected. It was an old air that
Griswold sang, and it gave charm to his words, which were those of
a man who loves deeply and who dares speak them to the woman
he loves. They rose and fell in happy cadences, and every word rang
clear. In the longer lines of the song there was a quickening of time
that carried the sense of passion, and Griswold lifted his head when
he uttered them and let them cry out of him.
One of Barbara’s white roses had fallen into her lap, and she played
with it idly; but after the first verse it slipped from her fingers, and she
folded her arms on the table and bent her gaze on the quiet flame of
the candle before her. And this was the song that Griswold sang: