"Smoke! Smoke!" he called, as the white figure shot across the patch of
light from the station doorway and vanished up the Tramworth road. Then
he realized the futility of his recent action, and laughed. As the step
on which he stood glided smoothly past the end of the platform, his
attention was attracted to another figure, standing with mouth open and
eyes gazing with an absurdly wistful expression toward the place where
Smoke was last visible. It was the baggage-man, with a piece of broken
cord in his hand.
"Cheer up, old man!" shouted David, as the train slipped past. Then he
turned and entered the car. "Might have known Smoke wouldn't lead just
like a little woolly lamb on wheels. Hang it, though, what will Wallie
say? Well, I've got the claim check for him, anyway."
He found a seat near the end of the car, flung up the window and filled
his pipe. "Couldn't sleep if I tried, so I'll just have it out with
myself now. Then I'll try the sleeper."
Settling comfortably in the corner of the seat, he glanced down the
aisle of the car through the smoky haze that blurred the lamps and
swirled through the ventilators. The man across the aisle lay huddled in
his seat, mouth open and head jogging as he slept. Near the middle of
the coach four men were playing cards. The muscular impetuosity of the
one who was leading his trumps with a flourish that suggested swinging a
pickaxe amused David more than it offended by its uncouthness. He
understood that type of man better than he had a year ago.
Through the murk came the winking eye of the conductor's lantern.
"That your dog that broke loose?" he asked.
"Yes." David handed him his ticket.
"Too bad. I saw him go. He just raised up and gave one jump. Shot out of
the baggage before they could grab him."
"I'm glad they didn't try to grab him," said David.
"From what I seen of him I guess that's right. North Station?
Eight-thirty." He leaned across the aisle and shook the sleeping man's
arm. "Belvidere next stop. Your station."
Ahead in the night sprang the parallel silver ribbons, the glistening
rails that shot beneath the rocking Titan of steam and steel and wound
smoothly away to nothing as the train thundered on. David could hear the
humming wheels beneath him clack quickly over the switch-points of
infrequent freight sidings and then the reechoed roar as the train
whirled between the forest walls, driving the long shaft of its
head-light through the eerie gloom of the dripping woodlands.
He rapped the ashes from his pipe and closed the window. The scar above
his temple throbbed and pained him. He passed his hand through his hair.
His head felt hot, despite the chill that ran through his limbs. His
hand trembled as he felt for his pipe again. "This won't do," he
muttered. "Wonder what the dickens is the matter with me? I never felt
this way before."
Then he drew a memorandum book from his pocket and sat gazing into
space, frequently jotting down figures. Soon he was completely absorbed
in the intricacies of approximating roughly the cost of establishing a
plant to mine the asbestos on Lost Farm. "Now if the N. M. & Q. crosses
five miles below us, it's going to make quite a difference. I doubt that
a spur from Timberland would be practicable. Perhaps it's a bluff--this
new survey. Maybe the old survey was a bluff. Bascomb had it in his
power to do as he pleased about that. Anyway, the stuff's there and he
wants it. If they were going to cross at Lost Farm, we should have
received notice from their attorneys before this, that's certain. Right
of eminent domain would settle that. Well, we'll stick to our guns and
fight it out. It's bully!" he exclaimed aloud. "It's worth while; and if
we win out, well, Swickey will have to change her first name, that's
certain. She will go to school, of course." He tried to picture Swickey
as a gracefully gowned young woman like--no, not like Elizabeth Bascomb.
She could never be like Bessie; and yet--why should she be like any one
but herself. The memory of Swickey's last appeal came to him keenly; the
pleading eyes, the parted lips--
He arose, opened the car door, lurched across the platform to the next
car, where he dropped into a more comfortable seat, and pulling his
hat-brim over his eyes, fell asleep.
Several hours later he awoke as the train rumbled over the reverberating
timbers of the approach to Boston. He gazed sleepily through the misty
window at the familiar environs of the city. He felt strangely
uncomfortable and out of place as he stepped to the station platform and
moved toward the gates with the shuffling crowd about him. The reek of
oil and steam from the pulsating engine was particularly disagreeable.
Several people glanced at him curiously as he came out on the street.
He shook himself together, and boarding a car sat gazing moodily at the
opposite window. How flat and squalid the buildings appeared. How
insignificant and how generally alike the people. They seemed to lack
individuality and forcefulness, these pallid, serious-faced regulars of
the civilian army of wage-getters. His native city had never appealed to
him in this way before. It was vast, of course; but its vastness was a
conglomeration of little things that produced the impression of size.
The wide sweep of the hills about Lost Farm and the limitless horizon of
the free woodland spaces came to him in sharp contrast, as he turned his
thoughts to the present need that had brought him back to his home.
"A bath and a good sleep will straighten me out," he thought.
As the car stopped beyond a cross-street he got off and walked toward a
hotel.
"My baggage is at the North Station," he told the clerk, as he
registered and handed his checks to him. "Send it to my room when it
comes."
"That man's sick," said the clerk, as David disappeared in the ascending
elevator. "Writes a good hand," he remarked, turning the register toward
him. "David Ross, Boston. Hum-m. But you can't always judge by the
clothes."
About three o'clock that afternoon, David appeared at the hotel desk
with a small parcel in his hand. "I shall be here a day or two, perhaps
longer. I'm going to have a few things sent. You may have them put in my
room."
"Yes, sir," replied the clerk, somewhat impressed by David's manner.
"I'll send them right up."
David strolled to the door and paused, gazing listlessly up and down the
street. Then he stepped out, crossed the Common, and walked down the
long hill toward his aunt's house. When he arrived there the maid
ushered him immediately to the cosy living-room.
"Miss Ross is out, Master David, but she expects you, and your room is
ready."
"I'll step up for a minute," he replied.
When he returned, attired in a quiet-colored business suit and fresh
linen, he called the maid and told her he was going out for a few hours.
"Tell Miss Ross I'll be back to dinner if possible, but not to wait for
me."
"Yes, sir. Excuse me, Master David, but you don't look fit to go out.
You're that pale I hardly knew you."
"Oh, I'm all right. A little tired, that's all. Don't say anything of
the kind to Aunt Elizabeth, though."
Half an hour later he entered the private offices of Walter Bascomb,
Sr., where he was received with a suave cordiality that left an
unpleasant impression.
"Wallie is at the club," said Bascomb, motioning him to a seat and
offering him a cigar. Taking one himself, he leaned back in his ample
chair and smoked, regarding David with speculative eyes that were bright
but undeniably cold.
"Well," he said, flicking the ash from his cigar, "how are you making it
up in the woods?"
"Doing nicely, thank you."
"Wallie has been telling me of your--er--occupation, your partnership
with a certain Mr. Avery of Lost Farm."
"Yes."
"Like that kind of thing?"
"Better than I do this," he replied, with a comprehensive gesture which
might have been interpreted as embracing the city, the office, or
themselves in particular.
"Yes?" The suavity of the tone did not disguise a shade of contempt.
Bascomb swung round to his desk and drew a paper from one of the
pigeon-holes.
"I've a proposition to make you, Ross." He tossed his cigar away and
turned to David again. "I have been elected president of a stock
company, a concern interested in northern real estate. You understand
about the Lost Farm tract and the N. M. & Q. Also my personal offer of
twenty-five thousand for the land. Will you take it?"
"No," replied David. "It's worth more."
"Well, I have to differ with you. But what I want to know is, have you
any financial interest in that property, or are you simply acting as
legal adviser to the present owner? In the first instance, I'm ready to
make you a substantial offer in cash. In the second, I am ready to use
my influence in securing an appointment for you on our advisory board.
The position will carry a monthly compensation equal to that of our
regular attorneys. We have splendid prospects of doing a business that
will pay large and regular dividends. We are already capitalized for
five hundred thousand; so you see," he concluded, "we can handle the
deal without much fear of competition from--a rival company, for
instance."
"May I ask what you intend to do with the land when you get it?" said
David.
"Well, ahem! as to that--See here, Ross, I can trust you, as an old
friend of the family, can't I?"
"If you put it that way, yes," replied David, "although I want you to
know first that I've decided about the Lost Farm tract."
Bascomb folded the paper he held and tapped the arm of his chair
reflectively. "Well," he said finally, "what's your decision?"
"To keep the land."
Bascomb wondered if Ross was bluffing for a higher figure, or whether
his young friend knew the real value of the property.
"Very well, David. Now as to your question as to what we would do with
the property if we purchased it. I don't see that that is immediately
relevant to my proposition. Of course Wallie has told you enough to make
it clear that the N. M. & Q. will have to have the right-of-way on Lost
Farm. My purchase of it has to do with that aspect of the situation."
"Well, Mr. Bascomb, I'm afraid it's impossible to come to an
understanding." Ross shrugged his shoulders.
"Now, don't misunderstand me," said Bascomb, bringing his palm down
smartly on the arm of his chair. "The Northern Improvement Company make
you the propositions I have outlined, through me, as president of that
concern. The company is connected in no way with the N. M. & Q. It's a
straight business deal from start to finish."
"I won't contradict you there, Mr. Bascomb. You have no doubt legalized
any prospective manoeuvres of the Improvement Company. However, I can't
accept either of your offers. As to my financial interest in the
property, I have practically none. As Mr. Avery's partner, I have
assumed the responsibility of advising him. I thank you for your offer,
however."
"How much do you want for the land?" Bascomb's eyes glittered behind his
gold-rimmed glasses, but he maintained his easy professional smile.
"Not a cent. We're not going to sell."
"Come, now, Ross. I can bluff also," replied Bascomb, forcing a laugh.
"Name your figure."
"I'll do it if you'll tell me--prove to me conclusively--that the N. M.
& Q. is going through Lost Farm tract over the line of the first
survey."
Bascomb laughed easily. "There's never anything absolutely certain about
railroads, my son, but we didn't spend twenty thousand on the first
survey for nothing."
"Merely as a matter of curiosity," said David, "how much did the second
survey cost?"
"The second survey? Oh, yes, I see," he replied in a tone intended to
emphasize the insignificance of that matter; "a little difference of
opinion among the directors as to the best route, you know. There is no
doubt in the world but that the Lost Farm approach to the bridge over
the gorge is the better one. As I recall it, it cost merely a few days'
extra work--about twelve hundred dollars, I believe."
"Thank you," said David, rising and taking his hat.
Bascomb stared at him. Exasperation and surprise commingled in his gaze.
Ross's indifference was puzzling. He recovered himself immediately,
however. "Oh, by the way, David, Walter said he wanted to see you. He's
probably at the club now; but if you don't find him there, drop in this
evening. We should all be glad to see you."
"Thank you, but I'm not feeling quite up to it--a bit tired." He stared
stupidly at the elder man for a moment and a feverish flush burned in
his face as he fumbled with the pocket of his coat. He drew out a small
box and laid it on the office table. "It's too heavy," he muttered.
"Can't carry it."
"What's the matter, David?"
"Nothing at all, only I wish you would sit still and not keep waving
your arms that way--it's annoying."
"You're not well, David. Sit down a minute."
"No, I want to get to Tramworth before night. It's getting dark and it's
a devil of a road."
Ross made no effort to go, but sat turning his hat round and round in
his hands.
"I'll call a carriage--"
Bascomb's voice sounded like thunder in David's ears and his figure
seemed to dwindle to a pin-point, then tower to the ceiling.
"No!" shouted David, springing to his feet, "I'll walk." He started for
the door, staggering against a chair which he flung out of his way, "No!
I'll walk." Then he swung the door open and faced Bascomb. He flung out
a trembling hand and pointed across the room. "No--but your man is a
damned poor shot--and he's dead--up there."
Before Bascomb could recover from his astonishment, David turned and
strode down the corridor. He stepped into the elevator, the door clanged
shut, and before Bascomb's ring was answered by the appearance of the
ascending carriage, David was in the street, hurrying round corners in a
vain attempt to flee from the blinding pain that he felt would become
unbearable if he ceased walking.
Bascomb returned to his office. "He's crazy--gone all to pieces. I
thought he seemed queer when he came in. Well--" The little box on the
table caught his eye. He picked it up, untied the string and opened it.
"Aha!"
There were several samples of asbestos in the box.
He examined them, then replaced them carefully and tied up the box
again. He pressed a button on his desk.
"William," he said, as his office-boy appeared, "if a Mr. Ross should
call when I am out, give him this box."
Then Bascomb went to his desk and pulled the telephone toward him.
"Livingstone," he said, as he got his number, "this is Bascomb.... Yes,
about the asbestos on Lost Farm. No, better come over here. I've got
some new samples ... five-inch fibre.... Just wanted you to look at
them.... Good-bye."