In a small office on the third floor of the City Bank Building Mr.
Theodore Mix, broker and amateur politician, sat moodily intent upon
his morning newspaper. For thirty years (he was fifty-five) Mr. Mix
had been a prominent and a mildly influential citizen, and by great
effort he had managed to keep himself excessively overrated. A few
years ago he had even been mentioned as a candidate for Mayor, and the
ambition was still alive within him, although fulfilment was never so
distant. But despite his appearance, which was dignified, and despite
his manner, which would have done for the diplomatic corps, and
despite his connection with local charities and churches and civic
committees, Mr. Mix was secretly a bit of a bounder; and although the
past decade or two he had made a handsome income, he had contrived to
get rid of it as fast as he conveniently could, and by methods which
wouldn't always have stood analysis.
Lately, for no apparent cause, his best customers had edged away from
him; he was gliding rapidly into debt, and he knew that unless he
clambered out again within six or eight weeks, he should have
considerable difficulty in preserving his reputation, both financial
and ethical. And like all men in the same position, Mr. Mix was
fiercely jealous of his prestige; by long practice he had warped
himself into thinking that it belonged to him; and he was ready to
defend it with every conceivable weapon.
For the moment, however, Mr. Mix was querulous rather than defensive.
He was trying to place the blame for the past two seasons of
misfortune, and when he observed that Pacific Refining was twelve
points up from Saturday's close, he sighed wearily and told himself
that it was all a matter of luck. He had had an appointment, last
Saturday at nine o'clock, with his friend John Starkweather, and he
had meant to borrow something from him, if possible, and to risk a
few hundred shares of Pacific Refining on margin; but he had
overslept, and Mr. Starkweather had left his office at nine fifteen
and hadn't come back again that day, so that the profit which might so
easily have come to rest in Mr. Mix's pockets was now in other
quarters.
Luck! The most intangible of assets and the most unescapable of
liabilities. On Saturday, Mr. Mix had arrived too late because he had
overslept because his alarm-clock had been tinkered by a watchmaker
who had inherited a taste for alcohol from a parent who had been
ruined by the Chicago fire--and almost before he knew it, Mr. Mix had
trailed the blame to Adam and Eve, and was feeling personally
resentful. It was plain to him that his failure wasn't in any sense
his own fault.
As he resumed his paper, however, his querulousness yielded to a broad
sunny optimism, and he turned to the sporting page and hunted out the
news from the Bowie track. He had a friend at Bowie, and the friend
owned a horse which he swore was the darkest three-year-old in
captivity; he had wired Mr. Mix to hypothecate his shirt, and bet the
proceeds on the fourth race, this coming Saturday. The odds would be
at least 10 to 1, he said, and he could place all the money that Mr.
Mix might send him.
Mr. Mix leaned back and built a stable in the air. Suppose he could
borrow a couple of thousand. Twenty thousand clear profit. Then a
quick dash into the cotton-market (the price was certainly going to
break wide open in another month) and the twenty would unfold, and
expand, and become fifty. And if a shrewd, cold-blooded man went down
to Wall Street with fifty thousand dollars, and played close to his
chest, he ought to double his capital in four months. To be sure, Mr.
Mix had been losing steadily for a dozen years, but he was confident
that he had it in him to be a great and successful plunger. He felt
it. Heretofore, he had been handicapped by operating on a shoestring;
but with fifty thousand dollars to put his back against--
His stenographer announced a caller, and on the instant, Mr. Mix, put
on his other personality, and prepared to silver his tongue. The
caller, however, came straight to Mr. Mix's desk, and flipped out one
sheet from a large portfolio. "Say," he remarked brusquely. "What's
the matter with this bill? Ziegler and Company. Two ninety two
sixty--dated November."
Mr. Mix laughed genially, and offered a cigar. "Why, nothing's the
matter with it."
"What's the matter with Ziegler and Company? Aren't they solvent?"
The visitor lighted his cigar, and mellowed. "Well it ain't any of
_my_ funeral, but Ziegler he says if you don't settle by the
fifteenth, he'll give it to his attorney."
For the third time in a week, an attorney had been lugged into the
conversation; more than that, Mr. Mix had received four letters from
two different collection agencies. "In the words of the Good Book," he
said soothingly, "have patience and I will pay thee all."
"What say? Will I come in next week sometime?"
"Now, that," said Mr. Mix, with a rush of approval, "is a first-rate
idea. That's first-rate. Come in next week some time."
"Right-o. Only Ziegler, he's pretty hard-boiled, Mr. Mix.... Say, why
don't you gimme a check now, and save me from gettin' flat-footed? Two
ninety two sixty? Why for _you_ that's chicken-feed."
"Bill hasn't been audited yet," said Mr. Mix, with all the grandeur of
an industrial chieftain. "Come in next week."
The visitor went out, and Mr. Mix scowled at the bill, threatened to
tear it, and finally put it away in a drawer where it had plenty of
companionship. To think that after his lifetime as an important
citizen--generally supposed to be well-to-do if not actually rich--he
couldn't pay a trifling account of less than three hundred dollars
because he didn't have three hundred dollars in the bank. Collection
agencies and the warning of suits--and impertinence from young
ruffians who were hired to dun him! He scowled more heavily, and then
gave his shoulders an upward movement of rancour and disgust.
And yet--the lines receded from his forehead--and yet there was
always John Starkweather, and the friend at Bowie. Mr. Mix rose,
and went out to the corridor, and down it to a door which was
lettered with Mr. Starkweather's name, followed by the inscription:
Real Estate and Insurance, Mortgage Loans. And as he entered, and
remembered that thirty years ago he and John Starkweather had
occupied adjoining stools at the same high desk, and broken their
back over the same drudgery, and at the same wage, he was filled
with an emotion which made his cheeks warm. Side by side, only
thirty years ago, and separated now by the Lord knew what, and
the Lord knew why. Mr. Mix knew that he was brainier than John
Starkweather; he admitted it. Brainier, smoother, quicker of wit,
and more polished. But Starkweather's office handled the bulk of
local realty transactions; it wrote more insurance than all of
its competitors in a mass; it loaned almost as much money, on
mortgage, as the Trust and Savings. And Mr. Mix, Broker, was on the
verge of bankruptcy. Luck! No question about it.
At the swinging gate there was a girl-clerk who smiled up at him,
flirtatiously. "Want to see the boss? He's busy for a coupla
minutes."
"All right," said Mr. Mix in an undertone. "I'll stay here and talk to
you."
"The nerve of some folks! Think I'm paid to listen to your line of hot
air? Not 'till they double my salary. You go sit down and have a
thought. Exercise's what you need."
Mr. Mix rolled his eyes heavenward. "So young, and so heartless!" he
murmured, and went sedately forward to the reception room.
The door of the private office was not quite closed; so that the
voices of two men were faintly audible. Mr. Mix cast about him, made
sure that he was unobserved, and dignifiedly changed his seat--nearer
that door.
"Yes," said a voice which at first he couldn't recognize. "The deed's
recorded. So legally, Henry owns the property now." Mr. Mix nodded
triumphantly; the voice belonged to Mr. Archer, a leading lawyer and
Mr. Starkweather's closest friend.
"That's the idea." This was in Mr. Starkweather's familiar bass. "Now
how'd you fix the will?"
"Why, it was very simple. Your point was that you didn't want
everybody to know what was going on. So--"
"No. And if I put a lot o' conditions like that in a will, why just as
soon as it was probated, Henry and Mirabelle'd both get an awful lot
o' bum publicity. They'd both be sore, and I'd look like a nut....
Naturally, I don't plan to die off as soon as all this, but better be
safe. I just want to fix it up so Henry'll get the same deal no matter
what happens."
"Very wise, very wise,... Well, here's what I've done. I've changed
the will so that the entire residuary estate is left to me in trust
for your sister and nephew to be administered according to the
trust-deed we're executing today. They can probate that until they're
black in the face, but nobody's going to find out any more than we
want them to."
"Sounds all right so far, but don't you have to take a trust agreement
like that into Court, too?"
"Sooner or later, yes. But you'll notice that I've covered it so that
unless Henry or Miss Starkweather says something, nobody's going to
know until the year's out, and I make the accounting. Now for the
trust agreement itself--if Henry demonstrates to me that within a
year--"
"A year from August first. The lease don't expire 'till then, and
Henry won't be home 'till then. August to August's what I'm goin' to
put up to him."
"Correct. If he demonstrates to me that within the calendar year he's
made a net profit of ten thousand dollars from the property--by the
way, isn't that rather steep?"
"No. Man's in there now's made three thousand and manhandled it. Just
horse-sense and some alterations and advertising'll bring it up to
ten."
"You're the doctor. If Henry makes ten out of it, then he receives
from me, as trustee, the whole residuary estate, otherwise it goes to
your sister. And during that trial year, she gets the whole income
from it, anyway."
Mr. Mix was sitting motionless as a cat.
"That's right."
"Well, then, if you'll just read these over and make sure I've got
your meaning, and then get a couple of witnesses in here, we can
clear the whole thing up and have it out of the way."
Mr. Mix heard the scrape of chair-legs against the floor, and hastily,
on tiptoe, he crossed the room to his original seat, and in passing
the centre table he helped himself to a magazine which he was reading
with much concentration when the door of the private office opened.
"Why, hello, Mix," said Mr. Starkweather. "Been waitin' long? Be with
you in half a second."
"Just got here," said Mr. Mix, as though startled. He returned the
magazine to the table, and was still standing when his friend came
back, in convoy of young Mr. Robert Standish, his chief assistant.
"Come on in, Mix. Want you to witness a will."
"Anything to oblige," said Mr. Mix, with alacrity.
He spoke cordially to young Mr. Standish and in another moment, to the
lawyer. With due solemnity he carried out the function which was
assigned to him; he would have loved a peep at the body of the
documents, but already he was possessed of some very interesting
information, and he kept his eyes religiously in the boat. Mr. Mix
believed that in business and society, as well as in war, advance
information is the basis of victory; and even while he was blotting
his second signature, he was wondering how to capitalize what he had
overheard. No inspiration came to him; so that methodically he stowed
away the facts for reference.
"Stay right here, Mix. That's all, ain't it, Mr. Archer?"
"That's all." The lawyer was packing up his papers. "Good-morning,
gentlemen." He bowed himself away; Standish had long since vanished.
Mr. Starkweather mopped his face. "Hot, ain't it?"
"You aren't looking so very fit," said Mr. Mix, critically. "Feel all
right, do you?"
Mr. Starkweather pulled himself together. "Sure," he said, but his
voice lacked its usual heartiness. "I feel fine. Well, what can I do
for you?"
Mr. Mix, delaying only to close the door (and to see that it latched)
began with a foreword which was followed by a preface and then by a
prelude, but he had hardly reached the main introduction when Mr.
Starkweather put up his hand. "To make a long story short, Mix--how
much do you want?"
Mr. Mix looked pained. "Why, to tide me over the dull season, John, I
need--let's see--" He stole a glance at his friend, and doubled the
ante. "About five thousand."
Mr. Starkweather drummed on his desk. "Any security!"
Mr. Mix smiled blandly. "What's security between friends? I'll give
you a demand note."
At length, Mr. Starkweather stopped drumming. "Mix, I don't quite get
you.... You've had a good business; you must have made considerable
money. You oughtn't be borrowin' from me; that's what your bank's for.
You oughtn't be borrowin' money any way. You been too big a man to get
in a hole like this. What's wrong--business rotten?"
"_Too_ good," said Mr. Mix, frankly. "It's taking all my capital to
carry my customers. And you know how tight money is."
"Oh, yes. Well--I guess your credit's good for five, all right. When
do you have to have it? Now?"
"Any time that suits you, suits me."
Mr. Starkweather shook his head. "No, it don't, either. When a man
wants money, he _wants_ it. Wants it some particular day. When is
it?"
"Why, if you _could_ let me have it today, John, I'd appreciate it."
"Make out your note," said Mr. Starkweather, heavily, "Interest at six
percent, semi-annually. I'll have the cashier write you out a check."
Ten minutes later Mr. Mix, patting his breast pocket affectionately,
bestowed a paternal smile upon the girl at the wicket; and Mr.
Starkweather, alone in his office, drew a prodigious breath and
slumped down in his chair, and fell to gazing out over the roof-tops.
It was a fortnight, now, since Henry's last letter. He wished that
Henry would write oftener. He told himself that one of Henry's
impulsive, buoyant letters would furnish the only efficacious antidote
to Mirabelle. And he needed an antidote, and a powerful one, for
during the past two weeks Mirabelle had been surpassing herself. That
is, if one can surpass a superlative.
Judge Barklay, of course, had taken the revelation like a man. Like a
philosopher. He was fond of Henry personally; he had objected to him
purely for the obvious reasons. He agreed, however, with Mr.
Starkweather--marriage might awaken Henry to complete responsibility.
Indeed he had Mr. Starkweather's guaranty of it. To be sure a secret
marriage was somewhat sensational, somewhat indecorous--
"Humph!" Mirabelle had interrupted. "I don't know who's insulted
most--you or us. Still I suppose you've got _one_ consolation--and
that's if two young fools marry each other instead of somebody else it
only leaves just the two of 'em to repent at leisure instead of
four."
Mr. Starkweather recalled, with chagrin, his own and the Judge's
futile attempts at tact. Mirabelle was tact-proof; you might as well
try subtle diplomacy on a locomotive. He took another deep breath,
and gazed abstractedly out over the roof-tops. He wished that Henry
would write. Henry had his defects, but the house was not quite
livable without him. Mr. Starkweather was swept by an emotion which
took him wholly by surprise and almost overcame him; he sat up, and
began to wonder where he could find some occupation which would chink
up the crevices in his thoughts, and prevent him from introspection.
Eventually he hit upon it, and with a conscious effort, he pulled
himself out of his chair, and went over to Masonic Hall to meet his
sister Mirabelle.
She had been attending a conference of the Ethical Reform League, and
as Mr. Starkweather's car drew in to the curb, the reformers were just
emerging to the sidewalk. He surveyed them, disparagingly. First,
there was a vanguard of middle-aged women, remarkably short of waist
and long of skirt, who looked as though they had stepped directly from
the files of Godey's Lady's Book; he recognized a few of them, and
judged the others accordingly--these were the militants, the infantry,
who bore the brunt of the fighting. Next, there was a group of
younger women, and of young men--the men, almost without exception,
wore spectacles and white washable ties. These were the skirmishers
and the reserves. At one side, there was a little delegation in
frock-coats and silk hats, and as Mr. Starkweather beheld them, he
lifted his eyebrows; some of those older men he hadn't seen in public
for a dozen years--he had forgotten that they were alive. But the
majority of them were retired or retiring capitalists; men who in
their day, had managed important interests, and even now controlled
them. Mr. Starkweather reflected that life must have become very
insipid to them; and he further reflected that their place in this
organization must be as shock-troops. They would seldom go into
action, but when they did, they had the power of consequence to give
them an added momentum.
His sister caught sight of him, and waved her hand in greeting; and
this astonished him all the more, because since Henry's departure, she
had behaved towards him as though his character needed a bath.
Mr. Starkweather made room for her. "Thought I'd give you a lift back
to the house," he said.
There was an unusual colour in her cheeks, and her eyes were
brilliant. "John, do you know what I am?"
Mr. Starkweather didn't dare to hesitate. "No. What?"
"I'm the--president," she said, and her voice was trembling with pride
and bewilderment.
"President? Of the League?"
Transfigured, she nodded again and again. "The nominating committee
reported this morning. I'm the only candidate...." She stared at him
and stiffened. "Of course, I know you aren't interested in anything
helpful or progressive, so I don't expect to be congratulated. Of
course not."
Mr. Starkweather made a dutiful struggle to be joyous about it,
and succeeded only in producing a feeble smirk. "I'll say one
thing--you've got some money represented in that crowd. Those old
codgers. I didn't realize it.... Well, what's your program?"
She unbent a little, and began to recite her platform, and as she
skipped from plank to plank, her own enthusiasm was multiplied, and
Mr. Starkweather was correspondingly encased in gloom. As a mere
active member of the League, a private in the ranks, Mirabelle had
made his house no more cheerful as a mausoleum; and when he considered
what she might accomplish as a president, in charge of a sweeping
blue-law campaign, his imagination refused to take the hurdle.
Fortunately, he wasn't expected to say anything. His sister was making
a speech. She didn't stop when the car stopped, nor when Mr.
Starkweather climbed down stiffly, and held open the door for her, nor
even when they had reached the portico of the big brick house. He told
himself, dumbly, that if the world would ever listen to Mirabelle, it
would certainly reform. Not necessarily in contrition, but in
self-defence.
And yet when he sat opposite her, at lunch, his expression was as calm
and untroubled as though she had fashioned for him an ideal existence.
He was seeing a vision of Mirabelle as a soap-box orator; he was
seeing humorous stories about her in the newspapers; he was
shuddering at all the publicity which he knew would be her portion,
and yet he could smile across the table at her, and speak in his
normal voice. Physically, he was distressed and joyless, but he found
it easier to rise above his body than above his mind. His smile was a
tribute to a dual heroism.
"Got a little present for you," said Mr. Starkweather, suddenly. He
tossed a slip of paper to her, and watched her as she examined it.
"There's a string to it, though--I want you to hold it awhile."
She looked up, sceptically. "Suppose it's good?"
"Oh, it's perfectly good. Mix is all right. Only I don't want you to
press him for awhile. Not for three, four months, anyhow." He pushed
away his dessert, untasted. "You know why I'm givin' you these little
dibs and dabs every now and then, don't you? So if anything ever
happens to me, all of a sudden, you'll have somethin' to draw on.
Let's see, I've put about forty in the little trust fund I been
buildin' up for you, and given you twelve--" He broke off abruptly;
his own symptoms puzzled him. As though somebody had tried to
throttle him.
His sister had already been sitting bolt upright, but now she achieved
an even greater rigidity. "Did you take my advice about your will? I
don't suppose you did."
"I made some changes in it this morning," said Mr. Starkweather,
uncomfortably.
"Did you do what I told you to--about Henry?"
He was struggling to keep a grip on himself. "Well, no--not exactly."
"Oh, you didn't?" she said tartly. "Well, what _did_ you do?"
"Mirabelle," said her brother, "don't you think that's--just a little
mite personal?"
"Well--I should hope so. I meant it to be. After the way Henry's
acted, he don't deserve one bit of sympathy, or one dollar from
anybody. And if _I_'ve got anything to say, he won't get it, either."
Mr. Starkweather's round, fat face, wore an expression which his
sister hadn't seen before. He stood up, and held the back of his chair
for support. "Mirabelle, you haven't got a _word_ to say about it.
I've made some changes in my will, but it's nobody's damned business
outside of mine."
She reached for her handkerchief. "John! To think that you'd
_swear_--at _me_--"
He wet his lips. "I didn't swear at you, but it's a holy wonder I
don't. I've stood this just about as long as I'm goin' to. Henry's my
own flesh and blood. And furthermore he wouldn't waste my money a
minute quicker'n _you_ would. He'd do a damn sight better with it.
He'd have a good time with it, and make everybody in the neighbourhood
happy, and you'd burn it up in one of your confounded reform clubs.
Well, all I've got's a sister and a nephew, so I guess the money's
goin' to be wasted anyhow. But one way's as good's another, and
Henry's goin' to get a fair break, and don't you forget it." He took a
glass of water from the table, and spilled half of it. "Don't you
forget it."
At last, she had perception. "John, you don't know what you're saying!
What's the matter? Are you sick?"
He was swallowing repeatedly. "Yes, I am. Sick of the whole thing."
His eyes, and the hue of his cheeks, genuinely alarmed her; she went
to him, but he avoided her. "No, I don't want anything except to be
let alone.... Is the car out there?"
"But John--_listen_ to me--"
He waved her off. "I listened to you the day Henry came home,
Mirabelle. That's enough to last me quite some time. I ain't forgot a
word you said--not a word. Where's my hat?" He rushed past her, and
out of the house, and left her gaping after him.
Half an hour later, young Mr. Standish telephoned to her.
"Miss Starkweather?... Your brother isn't feeling any too well, and
I've just sent him home. He looks to me as if he's in pretty bad
shape. Wouldn't be a bad idea to have your doctor there, seems to
me."
She had the doctor there, and before the night was over, there was
another doctor in consultation. There were also two nurses. And to
both doctors, both nurses and Mirabelle, Mr. Starkweather, who knew
his destiny, whispered the same message at intervals of fifteen
minutes. "Don't have Henry come back--don't have Henry come back--no
sense his comin' back 'till August. Tell him I said so. Tell him I
want him to stay over there--'till August."
And then, in the cool, fresh morning, Mr. Starkweather, who hadn't
stirred a muscle for several hours, suddenly tried to sit up.
"Postman!" said Mr. Starkweather, with much difficulty.
He was waiting for a letter from Henry, and when they put it into his
hands, he smiled and was content. He hadn't the strength to open it,
and he wouldn't let anyone else touch it; he was satisfied to know
that Henry had written. And after that, there was nothing worth
waiting for.