MR. BANKS TAKES A HAND IN THE GAME
Mr. Harvey P. Banks, of New York, was an angry and dejected man when he
arrived at Samson's Mill Settlement, only to learn that his guide of
several past seasons--in fact, the only available professional guide in
the district--was laid up with a broken arm. He poured the full stream
of his wrath upon the unfortunate David Marsh. He was a big man--tall,
thick, broad, and big of face and hand, big of voice, foot, and outlook
upon life--and his size seemed to fill the little farmhouse bedroom and
press poor David against the wall. After expressing himself at length,
he asked why the guide had not wired to him, so as to give him time to
make other arrangements.
Now that was a question that David had asked himself, too late. He
answered truthfully, his courage reviving as he realized that his excuse
was a pretty good one. He told of his accident in detail, of his
suspicion of Dick Goodine, and then, after another question or two, he
went back and described the game of poker, the marked card, and told Jim
Harley's story. Thus he explained a state of mind that had turned big
business considerations into unimportant shadows and meaningless
whisperings.
Through it all Mr. Harvey P. Banks sat in a splint-bottomed
chair--bulging generously over the edges of the seat--smoking a long
cigar, and gazing unblinkingly at the young woodsman. He nodded his big
head when David finished, and flipped a two-inch white ash from the end
of his cigar to the hooked mat at his feet.
"That's good enough for me, Marsh," he said. "I take back the hard names
I called you a few minutes ago. No wonder you forgot to send me a wire."
He turned his head and gazed through the window at a field of buckwheat
stubble, rusty-red, and a green-black wall of spruces and firs.
"Jim Harley told you the story, you say?"
"Yes, sir; Jim Harley. Doctor Nash don't believe it."
"Nash be blowed! And you say Jim acted very strangely when he saw the
marks on the card in your hand."
"Yes, sir; he acted mighty queer. Doctor Nash says it was all a bluff,
though."
"T'hell with Nash! How did the others take the sight of the red
crosses?"
"Quiet enough, sir. They was all took up with Jim's queer look and
words."
"And Rayton?"
"He just looked like an astonished horse, Mr. Banks. That's his natural
look."
"And Captain Wigmore?"
"Oh, it didn't bother him none, you can bet yer hat on that."
Mr. Banks nodded again. "It wouldn't," he said reflectively. "A mark on
a card wouldn't interest that old clam, I imagine, unless it was on the
back, where it might be of some use to him."
He asked several more questions about the chances of obtaining good
heads of moose and caribou in the Beaver Brook, Teakettle, and Dan's
River country this season, talked of past adventures which he had shared
with the young woodsman, and slipped in more than one query concerning
Maggie Leblanc. Then, promising to see David again in a day or two, he
lit another cigar and took his departure.
Ten minutes later, on the road, Harvey P. Banks met Reginald Baynes
Rayton. The Englishman wore his oldest pair of breeches, but their cut
was undeniable. Banks' eyes were sharp, though their expression was
usually exceedingly mild.
"You are Mr. Rayton, who is farming the old Bill Hooker place, I am
sure," he said.
"Yes. And you are Mr. Banks, of New York, I'm quite positive," returned
Rayton, lifting a shabby felt hat, and laughing pleasantly. There was
nothing to laugh at--but Reginald had a way of laughing politely at
everything and nothing. It meant nothing, but it covered profound
meanings.
Mr. Banks returned the unexpected salute with a fine gesture of his
tweed cap, and then the two shook hands.
"I have just been to see poor David Marsh," said Banks. "I blew him up
pretty high, at first, but I melted when I heard what he has on his
mind."
"Yes, he seems to be in a funk about one thing and another," returned
Rayton. "But it is rough on you, too. But--ah--I think I can help
you--if you don't consider it cheeky of me to--to make a suggestion."
"Cheeky! My dear Mr. Rayton, I'll bless you for a likely suggestion."
"Then let me put you on to some good shooting. I know this country
fairly well, considering I'm a new settler, and this is my slack season
on the farm. I can help you to a couple of good heads, I'm positive. We
can make my house our headquarters, for the game is very close in this
year. The house is snug, and I am something quite special in the cooking
line. What do you say?"
"It sounds mighty tempting, but--well, Mr. Rayton, I am a business man,
and I like to see the business end of every proposition before I start
in."
Rayton laughed freely, but politely.
"Of course," he said. "I am a farmer--and I see what you mean. The
business end of some propositions is like the hinder end of a wasp,
isn't it? Hah-hah! But--if you don't mind--well, I don't see how we can
put any business end to this. Ah--if you will be so kind as just to
consider yourself my guest. Hope you don't think it cheeky of me!"
"Well! 'Pon my word, Mr. Rayton, you are very kind. Why should you
befriend me like this? It is astonishing."
"Not at all. We can have some good talks, you see. I am a bit lonely,
sometimes. It is all serene, isn't it? Good. Where are your traps? Come
along."
So they turned and walked side by side along the road and across the
empty fields to Rayton's house. Mr. Banks glanced frequently and
wonderingly at his new friend. Never before, in all his wide and active
life, had his confidence been captured so quickly.
"And he seems to take me quite as a matter of course," he reflected.
That afternoon the two new friends, with Turk's assistance, shot a few
brace of woodcocks and grouse, in quiet swales and corners around the
outskirts of the farm. Then, together, they cooked supper. Shortly after
supper, while they were playing a game of chess, and smoking two of Mr.
Banks' long and superior cigars, old Captain Wigmore knocked on the
front door, and entered without waiting for it to be opened for him.
Rayton welcomed him as affably as if they had last parted on the most
polite terms. He introduced the small old man to the big middle-aged
one.
"We have met before," said the captain.
"Yes, I knew Captain Wigmore last year," said Banks.
Wigmore accepted a cigar from the New Yorker's bulging case.
"That is the real thing--the real leaf," he said. He looked at the
chessmen.
"Reginald, when are we to have another game of poker? I am sure Mr.
Banks plays the game of his nation. We must sit in again soon. We must
not be frightened away from a harmless amusement by that silly trick Jim
Harley played on us a few nights ago."
Mr. Banks feigned astonishment. "What was the trick?" he asked. "I
should never have suspected Harley of playing a trick--especially a card
trick. He has always seemed to me a very serious chap."
"Rather a queer thing happened a few nights ago, while we were playing
poker, here," said Rayton. "Captain Wigmore thinks Harley was at the
bottom of it; but I don't. Tell about it, captain."
So for the second time, Banks heard of the card marked with two red
crosses and dealt to young David Marsh. He watched Wigmore throughout
the telling as intently as he had watched the guide.
"Very interesting? Jim Harley is not such a serious fellow as I
thought," he said, by way of comment. And that was all until after
Wigmore took his leave, at half-past ten. Wigmore had not mentioned the
tradition behind the two red marks. When the door had closed upon the
queer old captain, Rayton and Banks talked for nearly an hour about
Harley's story of the red crosses, and David Marsh's experience of them.
The Englishman convinced the New Yorker that Dick Goodine had played no
part in David's accident. Mr. Banks, like Jim Harley, found it natural
to accept Rayton's readings of men and things.
Mr. Banks lay awake in his comfortable bed for a full hour after turning
in, his mind busy with the mystery of Samson's Mill Settlement. He
decided that whoever marked the card had known the tragic story of the
Harley family. He did not take much stock in David's accident. That had
been nothing more nor less than a piece of bad luck. Canoe poles break
frequently, owing to some hidden flaw in the white wood. But he felt
sure that the two red crosses on the face of the card were not matters
of chance.
"I'll work this thing out if it drives me crazy. I have always had an
itch to do a bit of detective work," he murmured.
Then he sank into deep and peaceful slumber.
When Banks entered the kitchen next morning, at an early hour, he found
the porridge neglected and sullenly boiling over the brim of the pot
onto the top of the stove, and his host standing with drooped shoulders
gazing mournfully at a five-foot length of spruce pole that stood in the
corner. Banks jumped ponderously and rescued the porridge.
"What's the trouble?" he asked. "Are you thinking of beating some one
with that stick?"
Rayton laughed joylessly. "This is too bad!" he said. "Molly Canadian,
the busy old idiot, brought this in to me only a few minutes ago. Silly
old chump!"
"What is it? And who is Molly Canadian?"
"She's an old squaw--and a great pal of mine. This thing is a piece of a
canoe pole."
"Ah! Piece of a pole. Why does it interest and depress you so?"
"She found it at the foot of the rapids in which young Marsh came to
grief. Yesterday, she says. If you look at the broken end of it you'll
notice that the surface is remarkably smooth for about halfway across."
"Ah! It has been cut! Cut halfway through! Do you think it is David's
pole?"
"I am afraid it is the one he broke. It was found at the foot of the
rapids."
Mr. Banks scratched his clean-shaven chin.
"Looks as if you had put your trust in a lame horse," he said.
"Yes, it looks that way," admitted the Englishman, "but I don't believe
Dick Goodine cut that pole! I know Goodine--but I'm not so sure of this
pole. Sounds silly; but that's the way I feel. I'm not much on reasoning
things out, but I've a few pretty clear ideas on this subject. From what
you tell me that Marsh told you, it is quite evident that Maggie Leblanc
is anxious to get Dick into a mess. Well?"
"You think the girl cut the pole?"
"Yes. Why not? She has Maliseet blood in her, you know--English, French,
and Maliseet. She is a fine looking girl, in her way and of her kind,
but I've seen two devils shining in her eyes."
"Would she run the risk of killing one man, just on the chance of
getting another into trouble?"
"I won't say that of her, Banks, but there'd be no need for her to run
that risk. Finding David in his camp, with a broken arm, evidently
suggested to her the chance of making trouble for Goodine. Then why
shouldn't she travel over to the rapids and hunt for the pole--or a part
of it? With luck, she'd find it. Then she could trim the broken end a
little, and leave it where it would be most likely to be found."
"Where was it found? In an eddy?"
"No. High and dry on top of a flat rock."
"That certainly looks fishy!" exclaimed the New Yorker. "I'm with you,
Rayton, no matter how severely you test my--my imagination. Shake on it,
old man!"
They shook.
"I am greatly relieved," said the Englishman.
"You see, unless I get outside opinion, I am never quite sure if the
things I think of all by myself have any sense in them or not. Well, I
am mighty glad you see it the same way I do. As soon as Molly told me
where she had found the piece of pole, I smelt a rat. Of course I'd
never have thought of all that about Maggie Leblanc, except for my
thorough belief in Dick Goodine. That set me to work. Now we had better
have breakfast."
Mr. Banks nodded.
"Why don't you set seriously to work to straighten out the marked card
business?" he asked.
"I have; but it just takes me 'round and 'round," said Rayton.
They had just finished their breakfast when Dick Goodine appeared, ready
to take them into the woods for a day, after moose. He brought a boy
with him to look after the place and the live stock, in case the
sportsmen should be kept out all night. The three left the house shortly
after seven o'clock.
Early in the afternoon Banks shot an old bull moose carrying a fine pair
of antlers. They skinned and dressed it, and hung hide, flesh, and
antlers in a tree; they pressed forward, for they were near a great
square of barren land, where the chances of finding caribou were good.
They reached the barren, sighted a small herd, and Rayton dropped a
fair-sized stag, and after making packs of the antlers, hide, and the
best cuts, they struck the homeward trail.
It was dark by the time the tree in which the remains of the moose was
hung was reached, so they made camp there for the night. At the first
break of dawn they were up and afoot again, and though heavily loaded,
they made good time. They halted only half an hour for their midday
meal, and reached Rayton's farm shortly after three o'clock in the
afternoon. Old Captain Wigmore was there to welcome them. They found him
in the sitting room, very much at his ease, with a decanter of the
Englishman's whisky on the table in front of him. Rayton laughed
good-humoredly, shook his hand cordially, and invited him to stay for
the remainder of the day.
"Gladly, my dear boy," returned the captain. He seemed to be in a much
better humor than was usual with him. The sportsmen washed, changed, and
had a long and quiet smoke, and when the smoke was finished it was time
to get the evening meal. Rayton and Dick Goodine went to the kitchen,
and set to work. They were interrupted by Timothy Fletcher, the
captain's reserved and disagreeable old servant. Timothy's wrinkled face
wore an expression of intense anxiety and marks of fatigue.
"Cap'n here?" he asked, looking in at the kitchen door.
"Yes, he's here," replied Rayton, with a note of sharpness in his voice.
The soul of politeness himself, he could not stand intentional rudeness
in others.
"Glad to hear it. I've been huntin' over the hull damn country for him,"
remarked Timothy.
"Do you want to speak to him?" asked Rayton.
Before the other could answer, Wigmore himself darted into the kitchen.
"What the devil do you want?" he cried, going close up to his servant,
and shaking a thin but knotty fist in his face. "Go home, I tell you."
His frail body trembled, and his very beard seemed to bristle with
wrath.
"But--but I thought you was lost," stammered the old servant.
"Get out!" screamed Wigmore. "Go home and mind your own business."
Timothy Fletcher stood his ground for a few seconds, staring keenly into
the captain's face. Then, without another word, he turned and walked out
of the kitchen. Old Wigmore glared around, swore a little, mumbled an
excuse, and followed his servant.
"That old captain is a character," said Mr. Banks. "He's worth
watching."
"He's a queer cuss, and no mistake," agreed Dick Goodine.
"Not a bad sort at heart," said Rayton, dishing the fried potatoes. "He
has had his troubles, I imagine, but when he is feeling right he is a
very agreeable companion."
"I like his room better nor his company," said the trapper.
A couple of hours later, when the three were smoking lazily by the
sitting-room fire, they were startled by the sounds of a vehicle and
horse tearing up to the house at top speed. Rayton and Turk got quickly
to their feet. The front door flew open and heavy boots banged along the
uncarpeted hall. Then the door of the room was flung wide, and David
Marsh burst in. His right arm was bandaged and slung, but in his left
hand he held a heavy stick.
"Have you seen that skunk, Dick Goodine?" he cried. "My camp on
Teakettle Brook's burnt to the ground! Oh, there you are!"
By this time Mr. Banks and Goodine were also on their feet. Marsh
started forward, with murder in his eyes, and his mouth twisted. Rayton
stepped in front of him.
"Kindly remember that you are in my house," said the Englishman quietly.
"Just stop where you are, please, and explain yourself."
"Get to hell out of my way!" cried David. "I ain't talkin' to you.
There's the sneak I'm after--the dirty coward who cut halfway through
my canoe pole, and then set my camp afire, stores and all! Let me at
him, you pie-faced Englishman!"