Bucking the Tiger/Chapter 13
CHAPTER XIII
A GLEAM OF LIGHT
DURING the next few days neither Macdonald nor Emily Steeves, as if acting under a silent compact, referred to the words which had passed between them. He knew that it was up to him to act, but he had not the faintest idea how he could do it.
He walked about with a morose air. Even the fact that the Lincoln Park lots were selling like hot cakes did not seem to interest him. Both the cow-puncher and the count noticed his gloomy silence, and they naturally concluded that the thought of his coming suicide was beginning to distress him.
Finally one day Walsh, regardless of the fact that he had promised Macdonald never to dissuade him from his resolve, broached the subject with what he considered to be supreme tact and dexterity.
"Listen here, Mac," he said. "Whenever I think of yer lily-white body down there in the grave, feedin' them nasty, crawlin', green worms, it sure gives me considerable pain in my instep. Now, what the hell is the use to blow out yer perfectly good brains just because of them four sheep-herdin', gander-headed coyotes down at the Eslick? Say, pard, you take my tip. Make a noise like a gold-brick, and treat that there suicide compact like a scrap of paper. Show 'em that them furriners across th' Atlantic learnt you something about the usages of up-to-date diplomacy. Don't kill yerself! Live, and keep on a livin'! They will say you was afraid. And what of that? I'd rather be a live greaser any day than a dead cow-puncher. And I knows you ain't no coward. So does the count. So does Miss Emily—"
"But does she?" Macdonald interrupted softly, and left the room.
Walsh looked after him, scratching his head. He told the count what had occurred, and the Frenchman smiled.
"My dear Andy," he said, "it seems to me that our friend is wavering between the—ah—marriage bells and the funeral bells, hein?"
"Well," Walsh drawled. "I lay you odds on the marriage bells. It's a few months yet before the first of April—and, believe me, little Andy's going to help some, if he can."
"So will I!" the Frenchman agreed fervently.
But all the time Macdonald continued to be a study in the primitive mud-shades of gloom and despair. It was only when he met Graham in the streets occasionally that a certain fierce joy and resolve came to him. At those moments he said to himself that he would beat that smug, sneering ex-warrior, and that he would beat him according to the girl's wishes—by honest means; neither welshing nor permitting himself to be blackmailed.
The girl was her usual self; a quick stenographer, an efficient secretary, and coolly impersonal. But all the time he felt her steady observation of him like a physical contact, like a soft, firm hand resting lightly on his shoulder, commanding him to go ahead and act.
A dozen schemes crossed his mind, to be dismissed immediately as unfeasible. But something seemed to tell him that his salvation would come from the Western Crown. He was not a superstitious man, nor was he easily influenced by any psychic suggestions. He was just a hale, clean, young American with a sense of humour and a deep capacity for sweet, unselfish love; a young American who had been a miserable failure in the past, who was making good now, and who had a splendid, solid future before him.
He was the quintessence of prosaic healthiness, and would have walked underneath a dozen ladders without the slightest qualm. But somehow he could not get rid of the idea that he was receiving a mysterious, subconscious impression which pointed straight in the direction of the Western Crown, the company in which he was insured, the company of which Graham had recently acquired control.
Finally he decided that he would obey the impulse. He would try to discover what the subterranean message portended.
"Most likely I'll waste my time and end up by kicking myself for a darned fool," he concluded his thoughts, "but—"
He had no idea how he meant to obey the impulse, nor why. But he knew at least where to apply for whatever vague, unformed information he was after. For there was Houghton senior, the man who had formerly owned control of the company and who had tried to unload it on him. So, late one afternoon, he dropped into the old man's private office. He found him alone, as his son had gone up to British Columbia.
A wintry smile lit up the financier's parchmentlike features at the sight of Macdonald. But it was a forced smile, and his heart seemed to be plumping into his boots.
"Holy subsidies!" he thought, as he waved the other weakly into a chair. "This young man has already discovered how richly I did do him over that Western Crown deal. In a moment he will give his war-cry and hit me over the head. I have a premonition that he will not respect my grey hairs. Officer, do your duty!"
Thus, as a slight peace-offering, he handed Macdonald a fat, gaudy-banded, honoured-and-important-visitors-only cigar, and started talking feverishly of outside subjects—of bribery, corruption, saloon-license fights, indictments of State legislators, and similar kindred political matters. Macdonald smoked viciously. He did not know how to begin, since he was not at all sure what he meant to ask. So he, too, made light conversation.
"Lovely weather we're having," he remarked, "though a bit late for the season; the prunes will soon be in full bloom—not very many of them—chiefly the pink ones; also—"
Suddenly Houghton senior gave a wild shriek. He could not longer stand the suspense.
"Stop, stop!" he shouted. "Stop, for the sake of mercy and Christianity! Do not mention the weather nor the scenery nor any other bits of local colour! Do not speak of the wild verbena which frolics in the greensward! Do not mention the spotted cow which chews her peaceful cud! Come down to tacks! Nine-inch, solid-headed, sharp-pointed brass tacks! Call me a wire-tapper! Call me a Utah Republican! Call me a near-Bulgar! Sob on my shoulder and bite my ear—only say what you have come to say. Say it quick! I am willing to arbitrate!"
He was silent. Thank God he said to himself, that he had cashed and deposited the draft which Graham had paid for the stock.
Macdonald looked utterly bewildered; but Houghton senior misinterpreted the expression for one of fury and hatred.
"Of course, you've come to see me in regard to the Western Crown," he said meekly, looking longingly toward the door.
"Yes, Mr. Houghton. How the devil did you guess it?"
The financier interpreted Macdonald's last remark as pure, unadulterated sarcasm.
"Well, I couldn't help it," he continued a little heatedly. "That man Graham you sent to buy those shares for you is a damned fool. His hind wheels are locked, and his carbureter is out of order. He should have known better. Why, damn it, he wrote insurance for the company himself. He knew that half, three-fourths of the notes we took in payment of the premiums were unsecured. Mac, I've an idea that measly Britisher double-crossed you."
"I beg your pardon, Mr, Houghton," Macdonald cut in. "I don't know what you are talking about. I didn't send Graham to you. I didn't buy any Western Crown nor any other shares from you—and what's more," he added under his breath, "I never shall buy any shares from you, so help me!"
He said the last words with such utter sincerity that the aged financier felt momentarily relieved.
"Say, Mac," he said, scratching his mostly bald poll, "is this the truth you are giving me, or some deep-toned, nefarious joshing?"
"It's the truth," Macdonald replied.
The other was still suspicious; so he continued severely:
"You aren't trying to be funny, are you? You aren't trying to wheedle me into childlike peace and confidence, and then—when I am not looking—to hit me on the vocal orifice with that large hand of yours? You wouldn't do that to me, would you, my boy? You wouldn't be so cowardly as to smite an old man on the top shelf after allaying his suspicions?"
Macdonald laughed.
"I've no idea what you're talking about, Mr. Houghton. I have not the faintest intention of committing assault and battery. And I don't see any earthly reason why I should."
"Well," the other replied dubiously, "you mentioned the Western Crown stock."
Macdonald laughed again.
"Is that sufficient reason to hit a man?"
"That depends—that depends," Houghton mumbled; then he continued sternly: "Graham didn't buy those shares for you? Really?"
"I swear to you he didn't," Macdonald replied.
Houghton did not speak for a while. It occurred to him that all his fear had been for nothing, and the thought made him mad. It also made him brave. So he blazed up.
"Then what the devil do you mean by coming here and talking to me about the Western Crown?" he shouted. "What the devil do you mean by introducing this—ah—painful subject? Have you no heart? Have you no sympathy? Have you no respect for old age?"
"Well, Mr. Houghton," Macdonald replied, "I'll be darned if I know why I came here and what I want to ask you. I obeyed a sort of impulse."
"Impulse be damned!" Houghton interrupted.
"It's so, though," Macdonald continued. "I don't know what I want. That's all there is to it."
"But you must have some reason!"
"Perhaps I have." Macdonald sighed. "It's such a long tale."
"Go ahead and tell me." Houghton smiled, for, in his own way, he liked the other, and he noticed that something was really bothering him.
Macdonald took a long breath.
"It's got something to do with the Western Crown; with insurance and—with death."
Houghton jumped from his chair as if raised by a spring.
"Good Lord!" he shouted, running to the door. "I knew you were lying to me! You bought those shares, and now you're sore at me!" He flung open the door. "Help!" he shouted. "Help! Murder!"
Macdonald ran after him and pulled him back into the room.
"Sit down, you silly fool," he commanded, "and listen to me for a few minutes. I'll tell you the whole tale from the word go."
And so, for the second time that week, Macdonald told his woful tale, including his many earlier failures, the suicide compact, his rise in business, his love for the girl, and the problem which the girl had asked him to solve.
Houghton listened in silence. Somehow his heart went out to the young man in front of him, and he felt moved by a genuine desire to help him out of his dilemma.
"Plain case, it seems to me," he said. "You've got to—ah—disappoint these four gentlemen who are waiting for your death. Let that fool of a Graham advertise you for a coward. What do you care? It will be the biggest free advertisement you can get."
Macdonald sighed.
"But I told you the girl doesn't want me to welsh. I wouldn't welsh, anyway: I'm not that sort."
"Queer fish!" Houghton senior remarked and lit a cigar.
He walked up and down, blowing out volumes of smoke, "efficiency" written deeply in every piratical lineament of his face. Suddenly he stopped in front of Macdonald.
"Mac, my boy," he said, "you obeyed an A Number One, nickel-plated, all-to-the good impulse when you came to me. I have bilked Graham. I bilked him for reasons of business, as part of the day's work. And now, by Heck, you and I will bilk him again—for reasons of personal animosity."
Macdonald interrupted impatiently.
"But I told you that I've got to play the game square and honest. There's Emily—"
"Damn the women!" Houghton said fervently, and resumed his walk.
Then an idea flashed through Macdonald's mind.
"Look here, Mr. Houghton," he said, "you told me you bilked Graham. Is the company as shaky as all that?"
"Very, very!" Houghton replied. "Of course, the company won't go bankrupt, if that's what you mean. Not that. You see," he added artlessly, "we couldn't afford to have her bankrupt—old Pat Kenny still has a few shares. But a couple of deaths will somewhat dent the company's assets, I'm afraid."
"Much cash in bank?"
"Well, not so very much."
"Any other investments, besides the notes?"
Houghton blushed.
"There's a good bunch of Red Cañon Copper shares among the investments."
Macdonald laughed.
"You don't mean that stuff which old Pat Kenny is offering to everybody for a tenth of a cent per share?"
"Yes. I do mean it."
"Fine and dandy," Macdonald laughed. "That stuff is assessable, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"And Pat owns control?"
"Yes."
Macdonald hit the aged financier heartily on the back.
"Mr. Houghton," he exclaimed, "I believe I've got it!"
"Let's hear, my boy."
Macdonald told him, and when he had finished the other shook him warmly by the hand.
"My boy," he said, "you're absolutely it. You personify what the magazines call 'Romance in Business.' You're a bear-cat! You instigate a fine cordiality and a noble admiration in my heart! There is prismatic beauty in the eyes of your soul! Come with me, and I'll buy you three drinks!"