Once upon a time, not many years ago, my children, there was a well-known
captain of industry who at his death had no other legacy to leave to his
three sons than fourteen bank accounts, all of them overdrawn, a couple
of automobiles without any tires on their wheels, and an Angora cat
which had taken several prizes at the annual cat show in New York, and
upon more than one occasion had had its picture printed in the society
columns of the Sunday newspapers.
The eldest son took over the bank accounts, and by the negotiation of
several large checks among his friends, each one dated several months
ahead, had managed to escape to Venezuela with a comfortable fortune,
where, after several revolutions, he found himself in the President's
cabinet as Secretary of the Treasury. He further enriched himself in
this office by the private sale of national bonds to innocent investors,
prior to his departure for Algiers, and became, before his death, a
leading spirit in that interesting colony, and an influential member of
the Missionary Society of East Africa.
The second son took the automobiles, and with a pot of paint and eight
old life-preservers, relics of the palmy days when his father was a
famous yachtsman, so furbished them up that he was able to sell them f.
o. b. to a couple of farmers in central Connecticut for five thousand
dollars, which he invested in Steel Common when it was sulking along
between 10 and 12 on a margin of five per cent., and, selling out at
84-7/8, he was soon able to retire to the serene joys and quiet
pleasures of the Great White Way, along whose verdured slopes he pranked
and played until paresis called him at the ripe age of twenty-seven
years. But to the youngest son, poor Jack Dinwiddie, by the terms of his
father's will, fell only the residue of the estate after the two
brothers had had their shares; in other words, the Angora cat!
It was, indeed, a melancholy situation, for poor Jack, like a great many
other sons of men of presumably large wealth, had studied only political
economy at college, and of the domestic variety knew nothing. He was an
honorary member of the Consumers' League, but of the methods of the
Producers' Union he knew little, and here at the age of twenty-two he
found himself fatherless, penniless, and without any visible means of
support in the line of earning capacity.
"Well, Puss," he said, gloomily, as he gazed at his Angora cat, who was
sitting on top of a pile of unpaid bills in Jack's bachelor apartment,
washing his face with his right paw, "it looks to me as if we were up
against it. The governor has gone to his last account, my allowance has
ceased, and you are the only clear and unencumbered asset in my
possession, barring this last cigarette and two matches loaned to me by
a kind gentleman upon the street to whom I applied recently for a
light."
He paused and lit the cigarette, while Puss, unmindful of the pathos of
the situation, continued his prinking, giving especial attention to his
whiskers, brushing them upward from his lips until he bore a not very
remote resemblance to the Kaiser himself.
[Illustration: "I SUPPOSE I COULD SELL YOU, BILL"]
"I suppose I could sell you, Bill," the young man went on. "Angora cats,
with a pedigree dating back to Dick Whittington's time and a bunch of
blue ribbons big enough to supply every prohibitionist in the Union
with a bowknot for the lapel of his coat, must have some market value,
especially in a time like this, when anything resembling beef is worth
its weight in radium; but I won't do it, old man. You've been a mighty
good cat to me, and as long as there is a drop of chalk and water left
in this world you shall have your morning dish of milk."
It was then that a very singular thing happened.
"That's all I wanted to know, Jack," purred the cat, jumping to the
floor and rubbing his sleek sides up against his master's leg
affectionately. "If we are not to be separated, it is up to me to show
myself the worthy descendant of a noble and resourceful ancestry. There
is a tradition in our family that no backyard fence has ever been so
hard to climb that we couldn't get over it. Do you know who I am?"
"Why, yes," said Jack, rubbing his eyes in astonishment, for he had
never heard the cat speak before. "You are Angora Bill, the Champion
Chinchilla of fourteen consecutive annual shows, and the neatest little
ratter that ever lived."
"I am more than that," replied the cat, proudly. "I am the direct lineal
descendant of the original Puss in Boots, and one of the advance agents
of prosperity."
Jacked laughed even in his misery.
"Those days have gone, Puss," he said, wearily. "There are no longer any
fairies to help poor beggars like me out of a hole, Bill--"
"That's what you think," smiled puss, scratching his left ear with his
right hind-paw; "but, my dear boy, my great-great-great-great-grandfather
was a back-fence piker alongside of myself, who, all unknown to you, am
one of the board of directors of the United States Fairy Company, of
3007 Wall Street, New York. If you will do just what I tell you, my boy,
we shall emerge from this little embarrassment of ours with flying
colors, and spend our declining years in a little onyx bungalow on the
corner of Bond Avenue and Easy Street that will make the Vandergilt
palace up on the Plaza look like a particularly cheap and self-effacing
owl-wagon."
Jack gazed mournfully at his companion. Surely, he thought, our
misfortunes have driven him crazy. Nevertheless he decided to humor the
creature.
"What would you have me do, Puss?" he asked.
"Nothing much," replied the cat. "Just pack your suit-case with your few
remaining collars and other garments, fill your five trunks with Sunday
newspapers and unpaid bills, and move at once into the Waldorf-Astoria,
taking a suite of five rooms and a bath."
"On nothing?" demanded the astonished youth.
"You lose less on nothing than you would if you had something to lose,"
retorted puss, with a wise air. "Do as I say. Lend me a pair of your
boots, a derby hat, and your fur-lined ulster, and wait for me in your
apartment. Go at once to the hotel, register, and ask if there are any
letters or messages for you, and all will be well. You might register as
Horace Vanderpoel, of Cincinnati, or St. Louis, or any other old place
at a comfortable distance from New York. Let your luggage precede you."
The cat spoke in a masterful tone that inspired confidence. As he
delivered his instructions he donned his master's boots and fur-lined
overcoat, and then putting the derby hat jauntily upon his head he
sauntered forth.
"Good-bye, Jack," he said, as he reached the door. "Follow my
instructions to the very last detail, and before long you'll be wearing
diamonds that will make the average incandescent electric light look
like an eclipse."
Now Jack was a venturesome youth and ready at all times for any kind of
an unusual experience; so, deeply impressed by the mere fact of the
cat's having spoken at all, he decided to follow out his instructions to
the letter. His five trunks, filled to the brim with papers and bills
and any other objects of _virtu_ that came handy, were dispatched at
once to the Waldorf, and in about three hours he himself followed them,
registering in a large, bold hand as Horace Vanderpoel, of Kansas City,
in the hotel book.
"I want a suite of five rooms and a bath," said Jack.
"Certainly, Mr. Vanderpoel," said the room-clerk, courteously. "We had
already made a reservation for you, sir. We will give you suite number
forty-two on the first floor."
"Good!" said Jack. "I wasn't aware that my coming had been heralded--in
fact, I have been wanting to have it kept as quiet as possible.
Important negotiations, you know."
"We quite understand, Mr. Vanderpoel," said the clerk.
"Have any letters or telephone messages been received for me?" Jack
demanded.
"No letters, sir," replied the clerk, "but--Rockernegie's secretary
'phoned us about an hour ago requesting us to ask you to let him know
the minute you arrived--fact is, sir, that is how we came to be on the
lookout for you."
"Rockernegie, eh?" said Jack, scratching his head with a puzzled air.
"Well," he added with a laugh, "I guess he can wait a bit. Have J. W.
Midas & Co. rung me up yet?"
"Not yet, sir," said the clerk.
"Well, I'm going down-stairs to be shaved," said Jack. "If Midas does
ring me up let me know."
He chuckled as he went down to the barber-shop.
"Bill is a great cat," he muttered to himself. "Rockernegie! Gee!
Here's hoping he won't forget Midas and Bondifeller."
He sat down in the barber's chair and was soon richly lathered. The
barber was about to apply the razor, when a small boy clad in a perfect
rash of buttons entered the shop.
"NUMBER FORTY-TWO, please!" he cried. "Gentleman number FORTY-TWO!"
"Wait a minute, Barber," said Jack. "That's my number. Here, boy, what
is it?"
"Wanted on the telephone, sir," said the boy.
"Find out who it is," said Jack, impatiently.
"Yes, sir," said the boy. "I have, sir. They told me to tell you, sir,
that Mr. Bondifeller was on the 'phone, sir."
[Illustration: "TELL 'EM TO TELL MR. BONDIFELLER THAT I AM TOO BUSY TO
SEE HIM"]
"Oh, is that all?" grinned Jack. "Well, you tell 'em to tell Mr.
Bondifeller that I am too busy just at present to see him. You might
tell him, too, that I haven't anything to add to what I said in my
last letter. If he doesn't like that, the deal is off."
There was a considerable craning of necks in the neighboring chairs, for
Jack had not thought to address his remarks to the lad in tones
suggestive of a confidential communication. The boy staggered slightly
on his feet, but managed to get away without dropping under the weight
of such a message, and Jack, lying back in his chair, requested the
barber to proceed.
"Bill is a great cat!" he chuckled.
"Beg pardon?" queried the barber.
"I say don't shave me too close," said Jack.
The shave over, Jack retired to his apartment and found in suite number
forty-two everything that the heart of man could desire, and throughout
the great caravansary the name of Horace Vanderpoel was held in high
honor. To be sure they had never heard of him before, but the associate
of these brilliant dignitaries of the financial world must indeed be
somebody, even in New York! Here he sat, awaiting developments, his
amusement as well as his interest in the adventure increasing
momentarily. An hour passed and then a card was brought to his door
bearing the mystic words:
COLONEL A. N. GORA
THE CATSKILL CLUB
"Ask Colonel Gora to come right up," said Jack, with difficulty
repressing the guffaw that struggled within him for expression,
recognizing the name at once. Five minutes later puss walked in, the
perfect picture of a military dandy, largely due no doubt to the cut of
his whiskers.
"Well," he said, removing his gloves, and out of sheer force of habit
proceeding to wash his face with his right paw, "you seem to be pretty
comfortably located."
"In the lap of luxury," grinned Jack.
Puss's face grew solemn.
"For a cat, my dear Jack, or, rather, Horace," he said, "the lap of
luxury would be a saucer of milk."
"You shall have a pitcherful, Bill," cried Jack, rushing to the 'phone.
"Not on your life, my dear boy!" meowed puss, excitedly stopping him.
"Never! The occupant of an apartment like this ordering a pitcher of
milk! Why, my dear fellow, that would queer our game at the very start.
Order some tea and I'll drink the cream."
After regaling himself on the refreshment provided by the confiding
management, puss, with a graceful readjustment of his whiskers, turned
with a smile to the wondering and admiring beneficiary of his
resourceful mind.
"Well, what do you think of it, Jack?" he asked.
"It is very nice indeed, Puss," Jack answered, "but--er--I can't help
thinking of the possibilities of the day of reckoning. Who's going to
pay for all this when the bill comes in?"
"Don' t worry," said puss; "I'll attend to all that. This afternoon I
want you to climb aboard the sight-seeing coach that leaves Madison
Square at three o'clock. Sit next to the young lady with blue eyes and a
Persian lamb ulster, whom you will find occupying the front seat with
her father, a large, stout gentleman with a kohinoor sparkling like an
electric light in his shirt-front and three more on his little finger.
If you happen to see me on the same coach, don't let on that you know
me, and, above all, don't deny anything you may hear anybody saying
about you. Where did you register from?"
"Kansas City," replied Jack.
[Illustration: "GOOD-BYE, JACK"]
"All right," said puss. "Keep a stiff upper lip, my boy, and all will be
well. Good-bye. Like most cats, I have a few fences to take care of
this afternoon and I must be off. I've found a nice little kitten up the
street who is going to manicure my nails."
With these words the amazing creature donned his hat and coat and,
resuming his boots, strode out with a magnificent swagger.
At three o'clock in the afternoon Jack, in accordance with his
instructions, boarded the sight-seeing coach at Madison Square, and,
recognizing the young woman referred to by puss sitting on the front
seat of the car, seated himself beside her.
"When do we start, Popper?" asked the girl, with a demure glance at
Jack.
"Putty soon, I guess," said the old gentleman, who sat on her other
side. "But there ain't never any tellin'. These New York guys does
things putty much as they please."
"Humph!" muttered Jack under his breath. "He sounds like real money from
Goldfields."
In a few moments the car started, and as they passed around the
Flatiron Building Jack was still further amazed to recognize in the
voice of the lecturer none other than that of the faithful puss.
"This building," Jack heard him saying boldly, "is the famous Flatiron
Building, erected at great expense by the Fuller Company and lately
purchased for five million dollars by the famous Missouri financier and
capitalist, Mr. Horace Vanderpoel."
"_Gee-rusalem!_" ejaculated Jack.
[Illustration: "THE HANDSOMEST TOWER IN THE WORLD"]
"To the right is the wonderful tower of the Metropolitan Life Insurance
Building--the handsomest tower in the world," continued puss, bellowing
his words into Jack's ears playfully through his megaphone; "while off
across the square to the north the structure in yellow brick is the
famous Madison Square Garden, soon to be torn down to make room for the
new Vanderpoel office building, sixty-four stories high, containing
theatres, assembly halls, churches, convention halls, restaurants,
apartments, and so on, besides offices, costing between ten and twenty
millions of dollars."
"Vanderpoel Building, eh?" said the old gentleman. "Any relation to the
feller that's bought the Flatiron?"
"Same man, sir. He's the only Vanderpoel," replied puss.
"Must have seven or eight dollars to spare," said the sight-seer.
"Ten or twelve, sir," laughed puss. "It is said that he is trying to buy
a controlling interest in the whole city. Negotiating for the Astor
estate, they say."
"Great Scott!" gasped the sight-seer. "What's he going to do with it
when he gets it?"
"Don't know, sir," replied puss, gayly. "Kind of suspect he's thinking
of annexing it to Kansas City, sir."
The car proceeded until the party reached the Plaza.
"On the left is the Plaza Hotel, another property of the Vanderpoel
syndicate," said puss; "said to have cost the Kansas City millionaire
ten millions, and paid for in cash."
"_Gee!_" gasped the young woman's father, and Jack indorsed the
observation unreservedly.
"That's a pretty house, Popper," said the young woman as the car reached
the Ninety-sixth Street entrance to the Park, pointing toward Mr.
Rockernegie's residence.
"Formerly the residence of Andrew Rockernegie," said puss, "but recently
sold to Mr. Vanderpoel for three million dollars."
"It's mighty funny I never heard of this Vanderpoel feller before," said
the old man.
"Just come into his fortune, sir," vouchsafed puss. "Very young man just
come of age, sir."
The old man leaned forward and, addressing Jack, inquired:
"Did you ever hear of this man Vanderpoel, young man?"
"Well, yes," said Jack, with a modest laugh. "Fact is, _I myself am
Horace Vanderpoel_."
The stranger gazed at him in amazement.
"Well, by ginger!" he said. "I--I--I'm dee-lighted to meet you, sir.
This is my daughter Amanda, sir. I--I--I'm proud to make your
acquaintance."
"It is a pleasure to meet you, sir," said Jack, pleasantly, removing his
hat and bowing to the young woman. "You are Mr.--"
"Dobbins, sir," returned the old man, effusively. "Joshua Dobbins. I
thought I was going some on the money question, with seven gold mines in
Nevada, but I must take off my hat to you, sir. Any man who has the
nerve to buy New York--heavens!"
The old fellow took off his hat and mopped his brow, which had begun to
perspire freely.
"Oh, I don't take any credit to myself for that," said Jack, modestly.
"When a boy has a great-grandfather who dies and leaves forty million
dollars to him in trust for fifty years before he was born, and that
money accumulates until the unborn beneficiary is twenty-one years old,
it means a rather tidy stockingful, I admit, but it isn't as if I'd made
the money myself."
"Fuf-forty million accumulating interest for seventy-one years!" gasped
Dobbins.
"Compound," said Jack, smiling sweetly at the girl at his side. "That's
the deuce of it. I--I've got to do something to keep the income
invested, and New York real estate, being the most expensive thing in
sight, I've gone in for that as being the easiest way out."
"I--I suppose you are living here now?" asked Mr. Dobbins.
"No," said Jack. "Personally I don't care particularly for New York. I
am just in town for a few days, stopping at the Waldorf."
"Why, so are we," interrupted the girl.
"Then," said Jack, gallantly, "the Waldorf possesses even greater
attractions than I had supposed."
The girl blushed a rosy red, and the old gentleman fairly beamed.
"Glad to have you take dinner with us, Mr. Vanderpoel," he said.
"Thank you," said Jack. "I shall be charmed to do so if I can. I sort of
half promised Mr. Bondifeller to take a snack with him this evening,
but"--this with a killing glance at the blushing Miss Dobbins "but I
guess he can wait. To tell you the truth, Mr. Dobbins, these New York
millionaires bore me to death. At what time shall we foregather?"
"Suppose we say seven?" said the old gentleman.
"My lucky number," said Jack, with a gracious smile, which set the heart
of Miss Dobbins all of a-flutter.
So passed the hours away. Jack found himself growing momentarily more
deeply impressed with the beauty of the maiden at his side, and by the
time the young people had reached the hotel it had become a pronounced
case of pure and ardent love. As they entered the Waldorf one of the
employees of the hotel rushed excitedly up to the young billionaire,
breathless with the importance of a communication intrusted to him.
"Mr. Rockernegie is on the wire--wants to speak to you immediately,
sir," he panted.
"Tell him I'm busy," said Jack, entering the tea-room and ordering a
slight repast for Miss Dobbins and her father. A moment later the
messenger returned, more breathless than before.
"Sorry, sir," said the boy, "but Mr. Rockernegie says he must see you
right away, sir."
Jack frowned as though deeply annoyed, and his answer came with an
incisive coldness that froze Mr. Dobbins almost to the marrow.
"Go back to that 'phone and tell the gentleman that it will take the
biggest search-light in the amalgamated navies of the world to enable
him to get even a bird's-eye view of me until I get good and ready," he
said. "Er--tell him he can come to my office at ten-thirty to-morrow
morning if he wants to, only he mustn't be late. Just impress that on
his mind."
Mr. Dobbins choked and coughed apoplectically.
"Don't let us interfere with any of your engagements, Mr. Vanderpoel,"
he sputtered.
"That's all right, Mr. Dobbins," said Jack.
"I wish you'd invest seven or eight million for me," said Dobbins, with
a sheepish glance at Jack. "I know it isn't much, but--"
"Risky business, speculating, Mr. Dobbins," said Jack, bravely, although
the suggestion had nearly knocked him off his chair. "Better hang on to
your pennies, now that you've got 'em."
"Oh, I've got eight or ten more where they came from," chuckled the old
man.
"Then, sir," said Jack, as calmly as he knew how, "the best investment
for you is in Miss Amanda Dobbins Preferred, a stock of priceless
value."
"I don't think I quite understand," said the old man, scratching his
head in perplexity.
"Settle five million on your daughter," explained Jack. "When you've got
her fixed comfortably in life, go in and do as you please with the rest
of your fortune. Play the game as hard as you like, and, win or lose, no
harm can come to her--and _if_ you lose, why, she'll be able to take
care of you."
"I've already given her four million, haven't I, Amandy?" said the old
gentleman, proudly.
"Yes, Popper," said the girl, and Jack's heart began to play the
anvil chorus on the xylophone of his ribs. What a chance!
"How about it, Mr. Vanderpoel," persisted the old man; "can you put me
wise?"
"Oh, well," said Jack, "if you really insist I'll let you into a little
blind pool I'm in, but not for very much--say a couple of millions. Only
I won't take a penny of your money if you are like all the rest of these
people here who want to be shown how things are every five minutes of
the day. I'll take your two million and you can call it a loan, if you
want to. Your receipt will be my demand note for the full amount. You
see I know what I'm about, and I'm careful."
[Illustration: "COULDN'T MAKE IT THREE MILLION, COULD YOU?" SUGGESTED
MR. DOBBINS]
"Couldn't make it three million, could you?" suggested Mr. Dobbins, with
a pleading note in his voice which Jack found difficult to resist. "I
happen to have that amount idle--"
"Well, I'll tell you what I'll do," said Jack, patronizingly. "I was
going to pull this thing off myself because it is one of the few
dead-sure things left in this world, but first the Midas people butted
in, then Bondifeller wanted a slice, and Rockernegie wore out his
library carpet running to the 'phone to ring me up about it, until I
told Central I'd have the company indicted as a nuisance if they let the
old man have my number again. None the less, for merely diplomatic
reasons, I'm going to let 'em all in for a small share. Just enough to
keep them satisfied with themselves. Exactly what the basis will be I
haven't yet decided, but if you are willing to take your chances with
them--well, you may hand me six certified checks for five hundred
thousand dollars apiece, so that I can spread the whole amount around in
my various bank and trust company accounts."
* * * * *
"Now what, Puss?" asked Jack the next afternoon, as he and his feline
friend held a consultation in the apartment. "I've got three million to
my credit in six banks. What's the next step--Algiers or Venezuela?"
"Why," said puss, "it seems to me that a man with three million in hand
can afford to stay in New York over Christmas, anyhow."
"Yes, I know," said Jack. "But the old man--he's got to have some profit
some time or other, hasn't he?"
Puss sighed deeply. "It is very evident, my dear Jack," said he, "that
you are no financier. Settle a million on yourself and use the remainder
to pay dividends to Mr. Dobbins. He'd probably think twenty-five per
cent. on his investment was a pretty fair return, and if at the end of
the first year you give him back seven hundred and fifty thousand
dollars he'll be satisfied. Then if you hand him over a full million the
second year--well--"
"Well what?" gasped Jack.
"He'll put five million more into the pool on your mere intimation that
you are willing to help him out to that extent," said puss, "which will
keep you going several years longer."
Jack breathed heavily at the prospect of such affluence, but he could
not escape the uncomfortable feeling that there would be an inevitable
day of reckoning ahead of him.
"And when that is gone?" he asked.
Puss gazed at him scornfully this time.
"My, but you are stupid!" he ejaculated. "I really want to help you,
Jack, but I can't do everything, you know. You've got to handle some of
this business yourself. But let me ask you one question: Did you ever
hear of a millionaire putting the father of his grandchildren in jail
because he had lost money in a blind speculation?"
"No, I never did," said Jack; "but you see, Puss, I am not the father of
Dobbins' grandchildren."
"No," said puss, "but why in thunder should you not be?"
"By Jove!" cried Jack, joyously. "Do you think she'll have me?"
"Will a duck quack?" asked the cat.
* * * * *
(Extract from the last will and testament of Joshua Dobbins):
"... and I do hereby appoint my said son-in-law, Horace
Vanderpoel, husband of my beloved daughter Amanda, sole
trustee of my estate, without bond, said estate to be
administered by him for the benefit of my said daughter
Amanda and her children, according to his own discretion;
for which service, in lieu of executor's or trust fees, I do
hereby give, bequeath, and devise to his use forever the sum
of five million dollars, together with such additional sums
as I have from time to time during the past four years
invested under his advice and direction in the several
properties in his control, both principal and interest
accrued up to the date of my decease."
"Dear old dad!" said Jack, when the will had been read. "Your father was
a fine man, Amanda dear, and a very successful man as well."
"Yes, Horace," said his weeping wife, "but he always insisted that he
owed much to your splendid business management; so, after all, you have
only come into your own, dear."
"Ah, well," said Jack, as he opened a fresh bottle of cream and placed
it before his pet Angora, "money isn't everything, sweetheart, and I
should have been satisfied if he had left me nothing but you."
And the Angora cat wiped off the back of his ear with his left paw and
twirled his mustachios upward with a wave of his right, as he purred
amiably over the cream.