Bucking the Tiger/Chapter 4
CHAPTER IV
THE TURN OF A CARD
HILLYER'S remark had certain reactionary effects on the outflushing enthusiasm of the others. While Macdonald was speaking, they had felt themselves caught in an unaccustomed eddy of things happening, things new and strange, with a golden bait wriggling at the tail-end. But here was something concrete. The Englishman's materialism had put it into words.
How much would it cost them? And who would be the goat?
Macdonald settled the first question in short time.
"You heard what Hayes said. Two thousand dollars premium the first year."
"I'll knock off my commission; say, eight hundred dollars," interrupted the Californian.
"Leaves twelve hundred," Macdonald continued. "Now, how much for our candidate to live on during his last year on earth?"
"A thousand dollars," it was the Frenchman who spoke.
Macdonald laughed.
"Not on your life. You can't expect a man to kill himself for six bits. Also, don't you think, Hayes, it would look rather fishy to the insurance people if a man who can afford to take out a whopping big life insurance, has to live like a piker and pinch and scrape?"
"Yes," the Californian agreed. "That's right."
"Three thousand bones," Macdonald insisted. "That's the very least we can give to our suicidal appointee. Add the twelve hundred insurance premium, and you have four thousand two hundred dollars. Divide by six." He figured rapidly. "There you are, fellows. Each and every one of the cannibals will have to contribute seven hundred dollars."
Hillyer gasped with amazement.
"Seven hundred dollars! My sainted grand-aunt Euphrosinia!" There was an expression of hurt surprise on his round, cherubic face which made him look like a saint with a tile loose. "Bloody stiff that, Mac!"
Macdonald laughed.
"But dirt-cheap for the investment. For at the end of the year you get your dividend. One-sixth part of a hundred thousand dollars! Figure it out for yourself."
They all started figuring excitedly.
"A little over sixteen thousand dollars apiece," Hillyer announced; and again a wave of enthusiasm spread over the company.
"Say," Walsh cut in, "that ain't bad; but all the same, pard, how in the name of hades are we going ter earn the money for the jack-pot?"
"We've got to," Macdonald replied.
And this time he found a hearty supporter in Graham.
"Look here, Andy," the ex-warrior said with conviction. "Mac is right. We've jolly well got to. Besides, hang it all, it shan't be so deuced hard to earn seven hundred dollars. Why, we are men of education and ability, of strength, what?" He quite forgot the sentiments he had expressed only half an hour ago, and continued serenely. "The country is young and rich. 'Pon my word! I am convinced that personally I shall be able to earn my little bit to no time."
A sarcastic remark trembled on Macdonald's lips, but he suppressed it when he saw the lugubrious expression on Hillyer's face.
"What is it?" he asked.
"I was just wondering," the other replied, "if my governor can be persuaded to remit that much." He looked a little more hopeful. "Still—by Jupiter—I've got a dashed old spinster aunt in the Midlands—very wealthy—large, sympathetic sums in the three per-cents—positively reeking with oof—used to tip me guineas when I was at Harrow. Fancy I'll tap the old girl by cable. What do you think?"
"Perhaps you won't have to cable," Macdonald said quietly. "You can't tell yet, you know. Perhaps you'll be the candidate."
"O Moses, King of the Jews!" Hillyer exclaimed fervently, and collapsed again.
A wave of dejection settled over the crowd. Their enthusiasm was flickering out like a candle in the wind. But Macdonald gave them no time to reflect or to recant.
"Let's quit this shilly-shallying and get down to brass tacks!" he cried enthusiastically. "We've agreed on the principle of the thing. We've agreed on its poetic justice and eminent feasibility. We've agreed on the amount we've got to stump up for the jack-pot. Now, let's agree on the candidate. Any volunteers?" He glanced around him, encountering only frowning, distinctly negative faces. "Of course not. Let's—"
Walsh jumped up.
"Let the cards decide," he cried, and swept the greasy deck from the box where he and Traube had been playing pitch. "Here, Mac," he gave him the cards, "shuffle, cut 'em yerself, and deal. Go on … the first ace means—ahem, you know, don't yer?"
"Death?" Macdonald queried.
"You're on. Go ahead!"
Macdonald' looked at the others for confirmation of the cowpuncher's proposal. They looked grey, dejected. The idea that in a moment a bit of painted paste-board would decide life and death between them passed not so much across their minds as across the pits of their stomachs. Only Walsh and Hayes kept their nerves under fair control.
Graham was conscious of a greasy, sickly taste on his lips, while Traube caught himself just in time from executing a frantic leap in the direction of the door. The Frenchman stared at the wall, his eyes protruding on his bullet-shaped head; and Hillyer was a cherubic, curly-haired study in the most appalling shades of dejection and despair.
But automatically, while their souls seemed to be contemplating some very distant and not very cheerful object, they mumbled, "Yes—go on," like a Greek tragedy chorus.
Macdonald shuffled the deck with steady fingers. He cut and commenced dealing from left to right, turning the cards face-up as he dealt them.
"Here you are, count," he said in a great, oratorical bass, and gave the first card to the Frenchman, who bowed gravely, remembering even in that moment of fear and expectation what was demanded of a man who bore the oriflamme of St. Denis on his scutcheon. "The eight of spades. Saved for France and glory—at least so far."
The Frenchman gave a little joyful exclamation, but instantaneously resumed his tragic expression as he looked at the others. Macdonald had turned up another card. He gave it to Hillyer.
"The nine of diamonds, old man. You may have to cable to your aunt after all."
Graham was next in line. He had to react with all the force of his will against a sensation of faintness running down his legs.
"Go on, go on," he said thickly. "Cut out the chaffing."
Macdonald laughed and dealt.
"The king of spades—danger line, my boy. Reminds you of the Boers, eh?"
Walsh was next and received a small diamond, while Traube got the queen of hearts.
"Ach!" he exclaimed huskily; then, with an access of heavy, Teutonic humour: "Gott bless de ladies!"
But nobody smiled. Hayes seemed afraid to open his lips lest a groan should escape him
"Hey there, you wooden-faced panjandrum," Macdonald shouted, and tossed him a card.
It was the four of clubs. He paused for a moment. Then he swiftly dealt a card to himself. He picked it up, looked at it, and tore it into a dozen pieces.
"What was it, what was it?" Graham demanded with an ugly oath.
Macdonald laughed.
"What d'you think it was?"
"I think it was an ace, by heck!"
Again the other laughed.
"And you're right. It was an ace!"
There was a sweep of utter silence. The six men sat rigid, looking into each other's faces guiltily. Then suddenly, Graham jumped up.
"You—you—" He stuttered in his excitement, and his face turned purple. "You lose—da—da—damn you!—You lose!—You won't back out!—You'll live up to the compact! You—"
Macdonald looked him up and down.
"Of course I will, you damned cad," he said in a level voice. "I'll live up to it, and I'll die up to it when the time comes."
Graham controlled himself with an effort.
"I beg your pardon," he said stiffly. "I didn't mean to—"
"Shut up," Walsh interrupted him with a roar. "Shut up, yer pap-fed, yellow-livered, slobbery-mouthed, sheep-herding coward! Shut up, yer spotted, body-snatching gila-monster!"
He turned to Macdonald. "Look a-here, pard," he said. "I'm as sorry as hell, to put it mildly. An' say—let's call this thing off. I don't like it—I—"
Macdonald shook his hand warmly.
"Well, Alkali Bill, you aren't such a bad gink after all. But don't tell me that you're sorry. Because you're not. You're glad, man, you're tickled to death—and you bet I'd be if I was in your boots."
Walsh was going to say something else. But Macdonald continued.
"Cut the soft pedal, Andy. We played for a stake. I lost, and you won, and that's all there is to that. And I don't want you to release me from my compact." He broke into loud laughter. "For you mustn't be too damned sure that I am the loser, and that you are the winners. I've won too!"
"What do you mean?" Graham asked sharply. "Are you trying to hedge? It was the ace—you owned up to it. We all heard you."
Macdonald smiled serenely.
"I tell you I won. Why? You fellows will have to work like the devil to get the money. The money for the insurance, and my own little pile; the three thousand. And just as soon as I've got my three I'm going to begin my last chapter, and, believe me, it's going to be some chapter! The fat of the land; peace and plenty; no more cheap tobacco, no more ham-and round at the Dutchman's, no more cheap lodging-houses. No. I'll live at a decent place. I'll join the club. I'll have a hell of a time.
"But you," he jeered at them, "you poor simps, you'll have to work for me. God how you'll work to make that seven hundred plunks apiece; and you'll make it. You bet you'll make it; because you know it's a cinch; because you know that I won't welsh. Yes, you down-and-outers, you'll have to work like fiends, and I—I'll be the gentleman of leisure."
There was a short pause.
"My word!" murmured Hillyer. "There's something to that! Suppose the governor refuses to remit; suppose the aunt— My word!" he said again, and goggled up like a dying fish.
The thought of how hard they would have to work to contribute their seven hundred dollars each struck them all with sadness.
Hayes sighed. He pointed at the bar-room.
"Let's have a snifter," he said. "It'll cheer us up."
There was a general movement in the direction of the bar-room; but Macdonald stopped them with a gesture.
"I wouldn't if I were you," he said softly.
They turned and looked at him questioningly.
"You see," he continued with the same sardonic mildness. "You see, I want the last ounce of flesh. I want every cent of that three thousand, and I want it darned quick. I give you a week to come across with the boodle!"
"A week?" Graham gasped.
"Exactly. You must respect a dying man's last wish, don't you think?" Then he continued seriously. "Yes, a week; not one single day more, mark my words. You'll have to start out, bright and early, to-morrow and work. Gad, how you'll work! So, take my tip, and cut out the booze. Off to bed with you. Don't hang round to pick flowers. Remember: seven hundred bones apiece—and seven days to earn 'em in!"
They filed out, one by one, without another word. Walsh was the last to go. He turned at the door and walked up to Macdonald.
"Look a-here, pard," he began hoarsely.
But Macdonald cut him short.
"That's all right, Andy," he said. "I know what you're going to tell me. No, no! Forget it—can it—cheese it;—dry it, and keep it under cover! Let me alone. You're a decent sort, but—"
He pointed at the door, and Walsh left.
Macdonald walked up and down. He was deep in thoughts. It had all happened just the way he had wanted. He had lost, and he had wanted to lose. He had even cheated so as to lose. For, remembering an old trick he had learned in college, he had palmed card after card so as not to give an ace to any of the others; and when his own turn had come he had torn up his card before the others had had a chance to see it.
He picked up the pieces which were littering the floor and put them together. They took the form of the jack of diamonds. He laughed and put the pieces in the stove.
He walked up to the window and looked out. He was surprised to see that night had passed, and that the grey-white of early daybreak had already come.
One year; twelve months; three hundred and sixty-five days, and then? He wondered if he had been a fool, or a very, very wise man.
He felt as he imagined a high-flying bird must feel, alone in the upper space.
Suddenly the air of the room oppressed him. He felt slightly sick. The atmosphere was acrid, greasy, intolerable. He flung open the window and let in a rush of cool morning air.
He looked at the landscape with steady eyes.
The East was drowning in ensanguined colours, and a sort of soft, lazy, sleepy flame was creeping over the tips of the pine-trees down in. Hangman's Canyon. He looked up the street. All the common, wretched things, the ugly, desolate frame houses, the rickety fences, the slanting chimneys, were losing their drab. Under the pagan gold of the morning they burned like costly and curious jewels.
He passed his hand across his forehead, and was surprised when he felt that it was covered with moisture.
Suicide, he thought, final oblivion, the beyond—and no more worries. Also one year of plenty. For three thousand dollars! Three thousand dollars!
He buried his face in his hands.
Three thousand dollars, he said to himself; what a chance he would have for a new start, a new life, with three thousand dollars in real money!
Gee, what a chance!