The Saturday Evening Post/The Dollar Chasers/Chapter 2
II
YOUNG Mr. Hammond felt not at all foolish as he hurried down Market Street, bound first for the establishment of Honolulu Sam and later for Pier 99. The going was slow, for the street was crowded with commuters on their way to the ferries. This little cruise, he thought, might very well prove the turning point in his life. The next few days were as bright with glittering possibilities as a Christmas tree decked for the great occasion.
He turned down Kearny Street, that thoroughfare of adventures, and at Post an adventure befell him. The traffic was held up, and he was hurrying to cross in front of a very wealthy-looking automobile, when a familiar voice called, “Whoo-hoo, Bill!” He looked, and from the window of the car he beheld protruding the head of Sally Batchelor. It was a lovely sight, but one he would gladly have dispensed with at the moment. However, he had gazed straight into her bright eyes, and to pretend not to see her was now out of the question. He circled a plebeian taxi and reached her side. She was holding open the door of the car.
“This is luck,” she cried gayly. “We're on our way to the pier. Jump in.”
Jump in! Without his laundry! A cold shiver ran down his spine. Luck, she called this meeting, but he was not so sure. He noted that there were three other people in the car—an elderly woman and two men. One of the latter was undoubtedly Jim Batchelor, and—yes, the other was Henry Frost. Millions sitting there!
“I—I'm sorry,” Bill stammered. “I've got a very important errand first. I'll see you later.”
“What sort of errand?” inquired Sally.
“It's—it's just round the corner”
“Get in. We'll take you there.”
He shuddered at the thought of this fifteen-thousand-dollar car, with two Japanese servants on the driver's seat, pulling up before the headquarters of Honolulu Sam, laundry left before eight a.m. back same day.
“Oh, no, no, really—you go along, Sally. I'll follow in a taxi.”
The traffic cop had signaled for an advance and a presumptuous flivver was honking indignantly just behind Jim Batchelor's magnificence.
“Go along, Sally,” urged Bill Hammond nervously. A passing car flipped his coat tail.
“We'll draw up at the curb in the next block and wait for you,” she answered, smiling sweetly. Obedience wasn't in her, evidently. “Here, give me your suitcase. I'll keep it for you.”
“Ah—er—no—no.” He hugged it tight. “I'll keep it. I need it.”
Another picture anguished him—the vision of himself rushing back into Jim Bachelor's presence with a large package all too obviously laundry. The clamor in the rear increased; the traffic cop was approaching.
“What's the idea here?” he wanted to know.
“Go along, Sally,” Bill pleaded again.
Now that he had the law on his side, she obeyed. Sinking back into the car, she closed the door in the policeman's face.
“Don't be long, will you?” she smiled.
The car began to move, and Bill dodged between it and the flivver, holding the precious suitcase close. Leaping for his life, he made the opposite curb, while angry chauffeurs inquired as to his sanity. He hurried on, groaning. Of all the inopportune meetings
A bell clanged loudly behind him as he entered the steamy precincts of Honolulu Sam. He tossed a red check on the counter, and plumping his suitcase down beside it, began to unfasten the clasps.
“Come on,” he called. “Little speed here. Give me that wash.”
The figure that emerged from the rear was not that of Honolulu Sam, but of a bent and aged Chinaman wearing a pair of badly steamed spectacles. Sam, having business over on Grant Avenue, had left the place in charge of his uncle, down from Sacramento on a visit.
“Hurry, man, hurry!” cried Bill Hammond, waiting impatiently above his open suitcase.
But speed was not one of uncle's inborn traits. He deliberately wiped his spectacles on the tail of a handy shirt, took up the red check, and stood helplessly in front of the finished work.
“Please, please!” cried Bill. “It's done—I know it's done. I paid a dollar extra to make sure. Where's Sam? Say, listen, we're keeping all the money in San Francisco waiting. Let me help you—oh, I can't read that stuff. But please get a move on.”
The old man made a gesture as of one requesting peace. He turned reproving spectacles upon the customer. They were steaming up again. Once more he studied the rack, while Bill Hammond chattered wildly at his elbow. Finally the Chinaman reached up and captured a fat package. Bill snatched it from him, tossed it into his suitcase and began to strap the latter up. The Chinaman was holding the two pieces of the check close to his eyes.
“One dolla,” he announced.
“And very cheap too,” said Bill.
He paid with a five-dollar bill, receiving in change four of those heavy silver dollars still in circulation on the coast. As he dashed out the door the bell rang again like an alarm. The old Chinaman was once more applying the tail of the shirt to his spectacles.
Making admirable speed, Bill Hammond returned to Post Street and located the splendid equipage that awaited him. One of the Japs stood ready to take his bag and open the door. A bit breathless, he climbed in and established himself on one of the little collapsible chairs in front, the other of which was occupied by Sally. He sat sidewise and Sally sat sidewise, and the introductions began.
“Aunt Dora, this is Mr. Hammond.” Bill bowed. The large, commanding woman on the rear seat, who was mainly responsible for the congestion there, bowed also—sternly. “And do you know Mr. Frost?” Sally continued. “You ought to—you work for him.”
Bill looked into the cold, fishy eyes of his employer. Henry Frost had the appearance of a deacon, though such was not by any means his reputation.
“How do you do, sir?” said Bill, uncomfortably. “Mr. Frost can't possibly know all those who labor in his cause,” he added.
“And Father. Father, this is Mr. Hammond.”
Father held out a thin small hand. He was, indeed, a thin small man, quite unlike the accepted figure of the great financier. His face was ascetic, his eyes rather dreamy; there seemed, at first glance, nothing about his personality that would strike terror to an opponent. The aunt, towering like Mont Blanc at his side, was far more impressive, and knew it.
“I'm glad to meet you, Mr. Hammond,” said the millionaire. “Sally has spoken of you, I believe.”
“It's mighty kind of you, sir, to take me along like this”
“An office assignment, I understand,” put in Henry Frost in a high, unlovely voice.
“Oh, that's merely incidental,” said Batchelor. “You'll find Mikklesen very interesting, Mr. Hammond. Ought to get a good story. But you're not to let work interfere with your outing, even if Henry—Mr. Frost—does happen to be with us.” He smiled.
“I'll try not to, sir,” Bill answered, smiling too. He felt much better. A human being, after all.
“I'm afraid my party's going to be rather a stag affair,” Jim Batchelor said, as the car swung into the broad expanse of Market Street.
“Well, we're used to that,” said Sally. “Aren't we, Aunt Dora?”
“We ought to be by this time,” sniffed that lady.
“There'll be Mrs. Keith, however,” Batchelor went on.
“Mrs. Keith!” Henry Frost raised his bushy eyebrows.
“A very charming woman, Henry,” said Jim Batchelor. “Lived in China a great deal, I believe. I want to have a talk with her about conditions over there. You see, this isn't only a pleasure cruise for me. There are two rather important questions I have to decide before I get back. There's that contract with the Chinese Government for bridging the Yang-tse-Kiang. I guess I mentioned it to you. I haven't made up my mind whether to make a bid for the job or not. Talking with Mrs. Keith and Mikklesen may decide me.”
“I understand that Blake has already put in his figures,” said Frost. “He'll probably underbid you.”
“Very likely. But everybody knows Blake is a crook. I imagine I can get the contract away from him if I go after it. They tell me he's waiting anxiously to know what move I'll make. I'll spoil his game if I go in.” Batchelor smiled, and it was no dreamer smiling then. “However, I've got several days. The bids don't close until next Thursday.”
“And the other question, Jim?” asked Frost.
“Oh, the senatorship. I'm still thinking of entering the primaries.”
“Nonsense!” growled his friend. “Why get mixed up in that sort of thing?”
“Just what I tell him,” said Aunt Dora. “Still, Washington would be interesting.”
“Well, I don't know,” mused Batchelor. “Every man has ambitions that way, I guess. At any rate, I'm taking O'Meara, the lawyer, along on this cruise to talk over the situation. When it comes to politics, he's one of the wisest.”
“O'Meara!” Mr. Frost spoke rather sourly.
“It's a very mixed crowd, I'm sure,” said Aunt Dora, and Bill Hammond felt that the glance she cast at him was a bit personal.
“A lot more interesting than a bunch of society folderols,” Batchelor told her. “And when it comes to elegance, that end's taken care of too. I've invited Julian Hill.”
“Good news for Sally, I'm sure,” remarked Aunt Dora, and again the look she gave Bill Hammond had a meaning all its own.
Bill knew that they were speaking of the third vice-president of the Batchelor concern, a young man of good family and social position whose engagement to Sally Batchelor had more than once been rumored. He glanced at the girl, but she was staring straight ahead, and her charming profile told him nothing.
The car was gliding along the Embarcadero now, that romantic threshold to the Orient. Ships that were destined for far ports waited motionless but ready, and on the piers was abundant evidence of the great business done upon the waters. Suddenly Henry Frost spoke.
“It's a wonder to me you could get any one to go with you today,” he said.
“Why, what do you mean?” asked Batchelor.
“Friday, the thirteenth,” explained the newspaper owner.
“The thirteenth! Say, I didn't realize that!” Batchelor's tone was serious, and glancing back, Bill Hammond was amazed at the gravity of his face.
“I didn't think you did,” smiled Frost, “knowing your weakness as I do.”
“What do you mean—weakness? I'm not superstitious.” And Jim Batchelor smiled, as though he had just remembered something pleasant. “Besides, no bad luck can happen to us—not while I've got my little lucky piece in my pocket.”
His lucky piece? Bill Hammond looked at Sally.
“For goodness' sake,” she laughed, “don't ask him to show it to you! That calamity will befall you soon enough, and at a time when I'm elsewhere, I trust.”
The car came to a halt before Pier 99, the property of a steamship company in which Jim Batchelor was a heavy stockholder. At the end of the pier, close to where a smart launch was waiting, they found the remaining four guests who had been invited on Jim Batchelor's week-end cruise.
An oddly assorted quartet, Bill Hammond thought, as Sally hastily introduced him. Mike O'Meara he already knew, having more than once sought to pry an interview out of him. A huge, bluff, ruddy man, the lawyer was decidedly out of his element and seemed to know it, but he had a gift of gab to see him through. Julian Hill proved a suave, polished man in his thirties, garbed in just the right apparel; he had no interest whatever in meeting Bill Hammond and didn't pretend any. Mrs. Keith was at that age where a woman knows that youth is going despite her gallant struggle. She had been, Bill sensed, a clinging vine in her day; but now she was a bit too plump and no doubt found the sturdy oaks elusive.
As for Mikklesen, he delighted the eye; he made the senses reel; he was magnificent. Tall, languid, with china-blue eyes and yellow hair, his slim figure clothed in tweeds, the Englishman added an artistic touch to any scene he chose to adorn. Save when he looked at Sally Batchelor, boredom afflicted him, and the indifference he showed in meeting Mr.—er—Hammond made the attitude of Julian Hill seem a bit too eager by comparison.
When the Japanese had got all the luggage aboard the launch, the guests followed. Bill Hammond had intended to sit beside Sally, but Mikklesen and Hill beat him to it, and he reflected that competition was going to be keen in the near future. He sank down beside Mrs. Keith. The launch sputtered and was on its way to where the seagoing yacht Francesca waited haughty and aloof, lording it over the more plebeian craft that lay about her.
“Isn't this thrilling!” gushed Mrs. Keith. “You know I haven't been on a yacht for ages.”
“Same here,” said Bill. “Grand to be rich, don't you think?”
“It must be,” sighed the woman. “I never could manage it. You must tell me all about it.”
“Me?” Bill Hammond laughed. “You've got the wrong number—excuse it, please. I happen to be one of the humble poor—only a newspaper reporter.”
“Oh, indeed!” Her smile faded. “How exciting—a reporter! You have the most wonderful experiences of course. You must tell me all about it.”
Evidently one of the you-must-tell-me-all-about-it sisterhood, a species that dated back a bit.
“Well,” said Bill Hammond cautiously, “if I'm not too busy with my work, I'll be delighted.”
“Work—on the yacht?”
“I'm supposed to interview Mr. Mikklesen on conditions in the Orient.”
She laughed.
“Oh, really? Mr. Mikklesen is an old—acquaintance of mine. I knew him in China. I'm sure he'll tell you the most interesting things—only you mustn't believe all you hear.
“He's a dear boy, but—imaginative. Oh, so very imaginative.” She glanced across to where Mikklesen was bending close to Sally Batchelor. The look in her eyes was not friendly.
On the deck of the Francesca her captain waited to greet his owner. Japanese in white coats appeared to receive the baggage.
“Dinner's at &:30,” Jim Batchelor announced. “After the boys have shown you to your quarters, I suggest that you gentlemen join me in the smoking room.”
“'Stag party' is right,” smiled his daughter.
“Oh, well, the ladies too, of course,” amended the owner of the Francesca. “I thought they'd be too busy”
As a matter of fact, he had forgotten all about the ladies. It was his habit; he was a man's man.
One of the Japs, burdened with luggage, politely requested Bill Hammond to follow, and led the way to the deck below. Mikklesen also was in the procession, and Bill wondered if they were to share a stateroom. It was not a happy prospect, for he knew the Englishman would coolly take seven-eighths of any room assigned them. They entered a passageway off which the cabins evidently opened, and at the third door the Jap dropped Bill's modest suitcase and, staggering under the load of the Englishman's traps, led Mikklesen inside.
“This is your cabin,” Bill heard him say.
“Thank heaven,” Bill thought. The Jap emerged, took up the solitary bag and led the way to the next door.
“So this is mine, eh?” Bill said. “Fine! Got it all to myself, I suppose.”
“Yes-s,” hissed the Jap. “Francesca sleep fifteen guests.”
“Good for the Francesca.”
“Bath here,” the servant said. He nodded toward an open door, beyond which gleamed spotless plumbing. Even as Bill looked, Mikklesen appeared in the doorway, gave him a haughty glare, shut the door and locked it.
“Bath for two cabins,” the Jap said. “Yours too.” He seemed distressed.
“Well, you'd better explain that to him,” suggested Bill. “Otherwise I'll never see the inside of that room again,” he added.
The servant disappeared. There was the sound of voices in the next cabin. Then the lock clicked in the bathroom door and the Jap was again in Bill's room.
“All right now,” he smiled.
“Maybe,” said Bill. “What's your name?”
“Tatu.”
“Well, Tatu”
He handed him a bill. The smile broadened.
“He leave door locked, you go through his room, unlock,” said Tatu.
“Some judge of character, Tatu. You got his number, boy. Don't worry about me, I'll bathe all right.”
The Jap disappeared, and Bill stood for a moment staring through the port-hole at San Francisco's interesting sky line. This was the life, he reflected, sailing gayly off into the unknown. His heart sank. Had he remembered to bring his shirt studs? Feverishly he opened his suitcase—thank heaven, there they were.
He went out in search of the smoking-room. On the upper deck he encountered Jim Batchelor.
“Ah, my boy, come along,” said the millionaire. “Maybe we can scare up a cocktail.”
They found Henry Frost already in the smoking-room.
“When do we get to Monterey?” he wanted to know.
“Early tomorrow,” said Batchelor. “There'll be plenty of time for me to trim you a round of golf before lunch.”
“You hate yourself, don't you?” answered Frost. “Ten dollars a hole is my answer to that.”
“Piker!” chided Batchelor. “Play golf, Hammond?”
“In a fashion,” Bill said. “Not so expensively as that, however.”
“Oh, it wouldn't cost you anything to take him on,” Batchelor replied. “He always pays. Henry's golf's a joke to everybody but Henry himself.”
O'Meara came in.
“Some boat you got here, Mr. Batchelor,” he said, “I'll tell the world.”
“Yes, it's quite a neat little craft.”
“Little! It's the Leviathan of the west coast.”
“Say, look here, O'Meara,” Frost put in, “Jim here's got a crazy idea he's going to enter the senatorial primaries. Now you know the game—I'm relying on you to tell him he hasn't got a chance.”
“I can't do that, and speak true,” O'Meara replied. “He's got as good a chance as any of them. You put up your name, Mr. Batchelor,” he added, “and leave the rest to us.”
“Well, I haven't decided,” the millionaire answered. “We'll talk it over later. Ah, Mr. Mikklesen, come in. Are you comfortably settled?”
“Oh, quite,” said the Englishman. “It was most frightfully good of you to invite me.”
“Well, my reasons weren't wholly unselfish,” Batchelor admitted. “I've sort of lost track of things in China lately—thought you could set me straight.”
“Any information I have, my dear sir, is yours. I believe you're thinking of that bridge contract.”
“I am—seriously.”
Mikklesen nodded.
“Of course, it's a bit risky,” he said. “The government isn't any too stable, to put it mildly. There are other difficulties—I'll speak of them later. Yes, it's decidedly risky.”
“You bet it is,” remarked Julian Hill, who had just come in.
“But I like risks,” smiled Batchelor.
“I know, Governor, but this is the limit.” Mr. Hill seemed very much in earnest. “I'm bitterly opposed.”
“You were opposed to that lighthouse job in South America too,” Batchelor reminded him.
“I happened to be wrong that time. But something tells me I'm not wrong now. Let's keep out. Don't you say so, Mr. Mikklesen?”
“I will say this”—the Englishman studied the end of his cigarette—“if you do go in, it will be a matter of what you call the breaks. They may be for you; they may be against you. You'll need all the luck in the world.”
“Ah, luck,” smiled Batchelor. “That's where the Batchelor Construction Company shines. For more than thirty-five years the breaks have been our way. And I've still got my lucky piece.”
He took from his waistcoat pocket a silver dollar.
Frost and Hill smiled at each other and turned away, but the three other men regarded the coin with interest.
“Gentlemen,” said Jim Batchelor softly, “there it is. The first dollar I ever earned. I was a kid of eleven at the time. My father was a mason and he was working on an apartment building they were putting up on Russian Hill. He heard they wanted a water boy and he got me the job. I had to fetch the water from a well that was a block away—a block down the hill. I carried an empty pail the easy route, but coming back it was filled, and I puffed and sweat and staggered up the grade. It was my first lesson in how hard money comes. On the first Saturday night I got my pay—this dollar—and I walked home with my father past shop windows that were one long temptation. 'What you going to spend it for, Jim?' my father asked. 'I'm not going to spend it,' I told him. 'I'm going to keep it—always.' And I have. For thirty-seven years it's been my lucky piece and it's made good on the job. I've felt it in my pocket at the big moments of my life, and it's given me confidence and courage. A little silver dollar coined in 1884.” He appeared to be holding it out to Mikklesen, and the Englishman reached forth his hand to take it. But Jim Batchelor restored it to his pocket.
“And it's still working for me, gentlemen,” he added.
“Poppycock!” said Henry Frost.
“Maybe,” smiled Batchelor. “But I hear there is a standing offer of one thousand dollars in the office of Blake & Co. for that little lucky piece. Poppycock, eh?”
“Oh, well, Blake & Co. know what a fool you are,” said Frost. “They realize the psychological effect on your mind if you lost that thing. They're willing to pay for that.”
“They'll never get the chance,” answered Batchelor, and his eyes flashed. “I think I will go into that China thing. In fact I know I will. Gentlemen, here are the cocktails.”
They stood about a table, each with a glass in his hand. As Bill Hammond looked around him, he saw that the eyes of each man present were on the pocket that held the little silver dollar. Mikklesen lifted his glass.
“Here's to your good luck, sir,” he said. “May it continue.”
“Thank you,” answered Jim Batchelor, and they drank.
At seven o'clock Bill Hammond set out for his stateroom to dress for dinner. At the top of the main companionway he met Sally—Sally in a breath-taking gown and looking her loveliest.
“Hurry up,” she said. “I'm eager for someone to help me enjoy the sunset.”
“Keep the place open,” he begged. “I'm really the best man for the job. Sally, I know who it is I have to thank for this little outing. You're always doing something for the orphans, aren't you?”
“Were you glad to come?”
“Glad? What weak words you use!”
“I thought you would be. The yacht's a lot of fun, really.”
“It's not the yacht I'm thinking of. If you'd invited me out in a rowboat my joy would have been the same. You know”
Henry Frost and Hill came up behind them.
“Dear me,” said Sally, “what a long cocktail hour! I'm afraid Dad's been telling you the story of the dollar.”
“He did mention it,” said Hill.
“And I'm glad he did,” Bill Hammond said. “It made him seem mighty human to me. The picture of him struggling up Russian Hill with that water pail”
“Dear Dad!” Sally smiled. “There is something rather appealing about the story. The first time you hear it, I mean. But when you've had it pop up constantly for twenty years, as I have, you're bound to get a little fed up on it. I've been very wicked. There've been times when I wished to heaven he'd lose that dollar.”
“Here too,” said Julian Hill. “Particularly when it leads Mr. Batchelor into some wild adventure like this China bridge contract.”
“Lose it!” cried Henry Frost. His little eyes glittered. “Why, it would ruin him!”
“Yes, I rather think it would,” said Hill; and it wasn't so much what he said, Bill Hammond reflected as he hurried off to his cabin. It was the way he said it.