Like many other energetic and successful men, Mr. Cutting had his enemies.
When, as counsel for the East End Land and Traction Company, he discovered
that the policy of a majority of the Board of Directors was to slowly but
surely "freeze out" the smaller stockholders, he promptly resigned his
position, and proceeded to form a coalition among the to-be-frozen. This
coalition had for its object the overthrow of the existing management
and the subsequent instituting of a new and generous policy.
[Illustration: Michael O'Connor.]
After a hard, stubborn fight, Mr. Cutting and his followers won; the
management was displaced, and Mr. Cutting again became counsel for the
company. But he had added to his list of enemies some who, though few
in number, were long of memory, relentless, and powerful.
Under the new _régime_ the company prospered, and the patient stockholders
received their dividends regularly, hitherto withheld or, rather, made
to appear non-existing by means of the well-known device of undervaluing
the company's lands in converse ratio to its increasing earnings.
The annual meeting was but two days off, and Mr. Cutting's sky seemed
clear and tranquil; but overnight clouds had gathered black and ominous.
The enemy, believing themselves once more superior in strength, or nearly
enough so to venture upon the step, at the last moment sounded the note
of war. That evening's paper contained insinuations, which were followed
in the morning editions by large headlines and by direct though guarded
accusations.
It was this morning, the morning of the very day before the annual
meeting, that I was sitting in the office reading these same accusations.
I was indignant and tired out.
All the night before I had been closeted with Mr. Cutting in his house,
working out with him a defence for use in the battle to come, writing
to this or telegraphing to that out-of-town holder of the stock; in one
instance even cabling to London for a proxy allowing Mr. Cutting to vote
a thousand shares held by a friend of his who was abroad. Together we had
gone through the long list of stockholders, checking off those for and
those against us, and embodying in a new list the names, not a few, of
those either uncertain or unknown to us. This list comprised the names
of almost all the smaller holders, owning from one to fifty shares. The
only large holding was that of one Andrew J. Ahearn, against whose name
appeared the goodly figure of five hundred shares. But, alas! he was
among the unknown to us.
As I was leaving the house Mr. Cutting had said to me, mournfully: "I'm
afraid they've got us this time. We need four thousand shares more,
counting Emley's as safe; and the cable may not reach him in time, or
he may be out of London. But, never mind," he added, clapping me warmly
on the shoulder; "we will fight 'em till they knock us out, and go for
'em again next year. See you at the office."
As I walked slowly home to my lodgings through the long, level shadows
of the early morning, the distinct rattling of incoming milk-carts and
the twitter of countless sparrows pulsed through my tired brain in throb
with the names of big and little stockholders. Thus, after a bath and
breakfast, I had reached the office tired and indignant over the unjust
and unwarranted attacks upon Mr. Cutting contained in the morning papers.
Though counsel in name, he was in fact the managing head of the company's
affairs.
As I sat at my desk, the newspapers lying about on the floor where I
had thrown them in my anger, the door opened and old O'Connor entered.
Unlike his former appearances upon the scene of Mr. Cutting's domain,
he did not wait to be spoken to, but crossed to me briskly, without
hesitation or apology, merely removing his tall hat and sweepingly
smoothing his thin white hair as he sat himself down firmly in a chair
directly facing me. Something was on his mind, evidently.
"Phwat's dthis the papers do be sayin' about Mr. Cuttin', sor," he began,
but, remembering himself, hastened to add, "Good-morning, sor. And how
is Mr. Cutting this morning, sor?"
I told him that Mr. Cutting was well. Then I explained to him that the
newspaper attacks were instigated by the old Board of Directors of the
East End Company, who were trying to oust Mr. Cutting and his friends
from the directorate. At receiving this piece of information he merely
remarked, tersely, "The divils!" and after a pause added, in a whisper,
"Shure, Mr. Cuttin' can down the whole av thim——" Then, with a note
of anxiety in his voice, "Can't he, now, sor?"
I replied that it looked very doubtful, the time left us being so short
and the other side having prepared themselves so secretly.
"And phwat's dthis," O'Connor went on, an angry look still more
contracting his wizened face and concentrating all his features to a
point at the tip of his short up-turned nose—"phwat's dthis they do
be sayin'—Chimmie, me bar-tender, was afther readin' ut to me—phwat's
dthis about Mr. Cuttin' mismanaging the money?"
"Not the money," I hastened to say; "the affairs of the company."
"Well—annyho-ow, 'tis a dommed lie," said O'Connor, thrusting out his
square chin farther and farther with each word as it escaped from between
the compressed wide lips, which at last opened in a far from pleasant
grin, showing his still sound if ragged teeth, as he ejaculated, with fine
distinctness, "The blay-gyards!" and then asked, with sudden eagerness,
"Do there be anny wan av thim oi knaw, now?"
"No," I said, laughingly, "unless you happen to have met the former
president, Mr. Walker;" thinking that that gentleman would in all
probability be the least likely to be among the O'Connor's acquaintances.
"Phwat Walker is this?" he asked, all interest and expectation.
"The former president," I said.
"'Tis not Jarge Double-ye, it is, now, is ut?" He was leaning forward,
looking eagerly into my eyes, his hands tightly clutching his knees.
"It is," I replied. "George W. Walker."
"An' _do I know him_!" he exclaimed, leaning back and throwing up both
hands, as if exhausted with amazement. "An' it's the loikes av him is
fightin' Mr. Cuttin', is ut?" I nodded. "Well, well, well!" he murmured,
softly. "_Phwat_ do ye dthink av that! Whishper! Sit still, there, you."
He rose and tiptoed quickly to the door, opened it, and with an imperative
backward jerk of the head summoned somebody from the hallway without.
In a few moments a small elderly woman squeezed into the room. She
was dressed in black and carried her hands clasped in front of her,
seeming to hold in place the corners of a shawl that, folded over her
shoulders, was crossed at her waist. Her bonnet was diminutive, but
somehow uncompromising, almost defiant, in its plainness. From beneath it
peeped a portion, but enough, of a smooth brown wig. By it I recognized
her. She was the consort of the lineal descendant of the last king of
Ireland; she was O'Connor's wife and Mollie's, now Mrs. Fennessey's,
mother.
[Illustration: Ejaculated, with fine distinctness, "The
blay-gyards!"—Page 222.]
"Ah! Mrs. O'Connor!" I exclaimed, rising, "how do you do? I am glad to
see you again."
She merely courtesied sharply and sniffed once. She was not nearly so
gracious and so comfortably confiding as she had been in the state chamber
of her own castle, where I last saw her. However, she remarked at length,
pleasantly enough, that "it was a rale plisint mornin', the day," and
seated herself in a chair near the door. For perhaps a minute O'Connor
stood by her side and whispered to her. She seemed interested. I caught
the sound of "Jarge Double-ye" from him, and a crisp and threatening "Ho,
ho!" from her in reply. Then they crossed to my desk, O'Connor drawing
a folded paper from his pocket as he came. His manner now was grave and
business-like.
"Av you plaze, sor, Mrs. O'Connor and mesilf would thank you if you
would be so kind as to lit us j'intly sign this paper forninst ye."
"Do you want me to witness the signatures? Is that it?" I asked, taking
the paper and mechanically starting to unfold it.
"Yis, sor. But 'tis—excuse me, sor—'tis a private matther. Read it,
sor, if—if——" He paused, much embarrassed. I hastened to assure him
it was not necessary for me to read it, and, smoothing down the lowest
fold of the document, handed O'Connor a well-filled pen. He, in turn,
handed it to his wife, with the words, "Sign you, Bridget Ann, fur-rst,
and I'll sign afther, meself."
"Where do I putt me name, Michael, dear?" she asked, now seated uneasily
at my desk.
"Just undher the worruds 'Wid my consint,'" he answered, pointing with
a short, knotty, curved index-finger to the words "So help me, God,"
which appeared on the right side of the sheet, just below the edge of
the folded section that covered the remainder of the writing, except the
words "With my consent," which were on the same line, but at the left.
I corrected his mistake.
Slowly and awkwardly, but with great patience, Mrs. O'Connor's signature
was constructed. If a decided upward slant indicates, as students
of chirography assert, that the writer is of sanguine and ambitious
temperament, the lady was surely a worthy spouse for an heir to the
throne of Ireland. The signature ran up, up, up, until balked by the
folded edge; but pressing against this obstacle, it ran its remaining
course in protest against its confinement. Whether or not it spelled
Bridget Ann O'Connor, it certainly spelled nothing else.
O'Connor, as usual, had left his spectacles at home. I signed his name
and an ×, while he softly touched the tip of my pen-holder. He sighed
with relief when it was over, and remarked: "Shure, cross or name, 'tis
all the same. There's no differ. Thank you kindly, sor, and phwat do I
owe you, now?"
As I waved away his question, Mr. Cutting came in from the company's
offices, which adjoined our own.
Despite his anxieties, Mr. Cutting greeted O'Connor with his usual cheery,
"Well, Michael, how are you?" and then seeing Mrs. O'Connor, crossed to
her and shook hands; after which she resumed her seat, and sniffed once
more—this time with more decision and with her nose in the air. _She_
knew she knew Henry H. Cutting, Esq., whether the rest of the world knew
she did or not.
"Well, Michael, what can I do for you to-day?" he asked, pleasantly.
O'Connor was immediately all confusion. As he tried to answer, he fumbled
with his tall hat (which he had hurriedly grasped from its resting-place
on my desk at Mr. Cutting's entrance), he pulled with gentle uncertainty
at the fringe of white beard that encircled his anxious face, while
his eyes followed the line of the washboard as if searching there for
encouragement.
"Anything wrong?" asked Mr. Cutting.
"No, sor; no, Mr. Cuttin'," O'Connor at last stammered. "Not wid me,
nor yit wid anny belongin' to me. But, Mr. Cuttin', sor, I do be hearin'
av—av—phwat the papers——" He paused.
I saw a look of pain and disappointment quickly cross Mr. Cutting's
face, and I read his thoughts on the instant. His old servant and friend,
doubtful of its security, had come to demand his money.
"Av phwat the papers do be sayin' about you," O'Connor at last gained
courage to say, "and av phwat thim blaygyards do be havin' in moind to
do to you, sor. So-o I wud—meanin' no presumshin, sor, and wid your
kind permission—be afther givin' you this, sor. I dic_tay_ted it and
me daughter, Mollie, that's now Mrs. Fennessey, wrote it down for me.
Av you plaze, sor."
He handed Mr. Cutting the paper I had witnessed, and was gently rising
and falling on his toes, holding his tall hat behind him in both hands,
while he nervously moistened his lips and gazed at the wall.
Mr. Cutting read the paper quickly, then walked abruptly to the window
and stood looking out. There was silence for several moments. O'Connor
continued his gentle rising and falling. Mrs. O'Connor sighed softly,
smoothed her gown by a touch or two, and again folded her hands. Then Mr.
Cutting turned and resting his left hand, which still held the paper, on
O'Connor's shoulder, with his right grasped the other's right and shook
it warmly. There was the glitter of moisture in his eyes, but his fine
face wore an expression of mingled affection and mirth.
"Michael," he said, his clear, musical voice firm and kind, "I thank you
with all my heart for your generous offer of assistance. And you, too,
Bridget." Mrs. O'Connor half rose, sat down again and sniffed. "But I
cannot—it would not be right for me to accept it."
Then followed a wholly unwritable scene—O'Connor and his wife, by turns
and at times together, protesting, insisting, assuring, even coaxing.
In the _mêlée_ of warm-hearted Irish explosives, I could distinguish,
"Shure, I've plinty money"—"More than plinty, he has"—"What wid me
rum"—"Yis, an' your junk"—"And me rints"—"There's a good man, now"
"No bodther at all, at all." But at last O'Connor caught a look in his
former employer's eye that he knew. He saw that further argument or
entreaty was useless. At a gesture from Mr. Cutting, he and his wife
desisted.
[Illustration: Slowly and awkwardly, but with great patience, Mrs.
O'Connor's signature was constructed.—Page 224.]
"No, Michael," Mr. Cutting continued, quietly; "it is impossible. It
is out of the question. Besides, I must tell you, and now seems a good
time, that while my affairs are in no danger, they are, owing to this
new development in the company's prospects, causing me a good deal of
trouble and anxiety. I have, therefore, turned the property of yours I
was holding into cash, and it is now in my bank. I want you to wait here
while I send and draw it out. Then I am going to ask you to take care
of it yourself—at least, for the present. I am happy to say the amount
has increased considerably, and I know you won't be disappointed."
His tone was firm, and his determination manifest. O'Connor humbly
acquiesced with his familiar "Phwativer you plaze, sor, Mr. Cutting,
sor." Then Mr. Cutting said:
"But there is one thing you can do for me, Michael, and I shall be very
much obliged to you if you will."
"I will, then," said O'Connor, brightening. "Phwat is ut?"
"Give me this paper," said Mr. Cutting, holding up the paper O'Connor
had handed him.
"Shure I will, sor, if you want it. 'Tis no use to me now." His sadness
had returned, and now held him completely.
Mr. Cutting then disappeared into the company's offices; but in passing
my desk on the way he laid the paper before me, whispering as he did
so, "Read that."
O'Connor and his wife were now conversing apart, in mournful numbers,
so I read, unobserved, this:
"I, Michael O'Connor, being of sound and disposing mind, this day
do hereby loan to Mr. Henry H. Cutting, Esq., for any use he please,
all my money he has now in charge, him to repay whenever it suits his
convenience, and if never at all, no matter at all.
"So help me God.
"_Michael_
"his × mark
"_O'Connor_.
"With my consent,
"_Bridget Ann O'Connor_."
You may be sure it found a safe abiding-place among Mr. Cutting's most
cherished possessions. He soon came back into the office, alert and
eager, a new light in his eyes.
"Mike," he exclaimed, so suddenly that O'Connor dropped his hat, "perhaps
you _can_ help me after all."
"Glory be to God!" exclaimed O'Connor, looking at him, though groping
for his hat, which had rolled in a short semi-circle to his wife's feet
and was now safely reposing in her lap. "How, sor?"
"Parker," said Mr. Cutting turning to me, "let me have that copy of the
list of the uncertain and unknown. Ah!" as he took it and with a flirt
opened it. "Michael, see if you can tell me anything of these people.
Perhaps you may know the first one on the list—Andrew J. Ahearn, five
hundred shares."
"Andy Ahearn!" replied O'Connor, in interested surprise. "Yis, sor,
shure I know Andy Ahearn these t'irty years—more shame to me."
"Oh, ho! Thrue for you," came from Mrs. O'Connor's direction.
"What sort of man is he?" Mr. Cutting asked.
"Shure, he do go round pickin' up bur-rnt matches against the day there's
no builder left who'll give him firewood; and him wort' his t'ousands
upon t'ousands. And now I think av it, sor, I can tell ye how he kem
by thim five hunder' shares." Here the old man became very deliberate
and precise. "Now, d'ye moind, he is—no-o—he was father to Carneelus
Ahearn, him that was in the Legis_lay_ter five year ago. 'Twas thin d'ye
moind, your company—as it is no-ow—was petishinin' for a—phwat's this
ut is—a franchise. Well, I dunno-o; but thin it was many av thim in
the Legis_lay_ter got shares av stock. Some sez they bought thim, and
odthers sez—but that's neidther here nor there, at all, at all, and av
no consequince now. But 'twas this same Carneelus, d'ye moind, son to
Andy, that was afther give a term av five years in jail, for—for—phwat's
this they calls shtealin' whin it ain't shtealin', now?"
"Embezzlement," I suggested.
"That's ut," said O'Connor. "An' he died two years afther, wid t'ree
year yet comin' to him. So, now, d'ye moind how ould Andy Ahearn kem by
the five hunder' shares? He bought thim arf av his son, Carneelus."
"Do you think you could get him to give you a proxy?" Mr. Cutting asked.
"An' phwat's that, sor, av you plaze?"
"Shure, Michael, dear," came in cooing accents from the lady across the
room, "a proxy is a godfather or a godmother whin they are unabil to be
prisint."
I tried not to laugh, and Mr. Cutting turned his head to hide a smile;
but O'Connor saw that something was wrong. Turning toward his wife, he
said, impressively:
"Shure, Bridgit Ann, 'tis not ba-abies we're dishcussin', dear. 'Tis
business, it is."
Mr. Cutting and I finally succeeded in giving him a fairly good idea of
what a proxy was.
"Shure, 'tis a permit fer me to vote fer him as I plaze, thin?" he asked,
at last.
Mr. Cutting said that that was near enough for all practical purposes,
and went on reading from the list of names, selecting those of evident
or probable Celtic origin. It was amazing how many the old couple knew,
either personally or by hearsay. In many instances Mrs. O'Connor was
with difficulty restrained from giving a complete family history of the
person in question. As the reading progressed they became more and more
excited and enthusiastic, until at last O'Connor broke out with:
"Nivver moind the rist, sor. Gimme the list av the whole av thim, and
a boonch av thim godfa—I mane, thim proxies."
[Illustration: "There's a good man, now—no bodther at all, at
all."—Page 225.]
"And moind you take Chimmie along wid you, Michael," said Mrs. O'Connor,
grasping at once her husband's intention and eagerly espousing it. "Chim
knows manny as well as you, and some betther. Thin, he is eddi_cay_ted,
too, Michael, dear. And I'll get Tim to come over and tind bar, dear."
"Thrue for you, Bridgit Ann," said O'Connor, warmly. "'Tis Chimmie an'
me will do the job this day."
I gave him a handful of printed blanks to use for the proxies, and Mr.
Cutting handed him the list of names. He disposed of these summarily
in the capacious pocket of his coat, caught his wife by the arm, and
together they started to go.
At this moment a clerk entered and handed Mr. Cutting O'Connor's money.
"Wait, Michael," he called. "Here's your money; and here"—reaching for
a paper in his desk—"is an account of how we stand. It is all there.
Look it over at your leisure."
O'Connor hesitated, a last look of pleading in his eyes; then took the
money and account, thrust them deep into his trousers pocket, and hurried
to the door. This he partly opened, and he and milady scurried funnily
through the narrow space, like a pair of elderly black puppies. The door
closed behind them.
Mr. Cutting leaned back in his chair, and laughed for a full minute.
Then he asked me to bring him the signed dictation. I did so. He read
it through once more, laughed again, and sighed:
"God bless him! Being of sound and disposing mind this day, I will take
the will for the deed." He sat for a moment in thought; then holding the
paper before him, he said, musingly: "Few, very, very few are those in
_this_ world so broadly eddi_cay_ted as to have dic_tay_ted this."
"There are few of the blood royal," I ventured to remark.
"And more's the pity," he said, as the lock of his lacquered dispatch-box
clicked. For a time we were silent.
"It just occurs to me," I said at last, "that we forgot to have him sign
a receipt."
"Receipt, man!" he exclaimed. "A receipt from _him_? Besides, we have
Bridget Ann as a witness." And chuckling, he passed again into the
company's offices.
Not until the very hour of the day of the meeting did we realize that
we had entirely forgotten to instruct O'Connor to have such proxies as
he might get made out in Mr. Cutting's name.
The morrow came, and with it the meeting. The stockholders were not
present in large numbers, but enough were there to crowd uncomfortably
the directors' room where the meeting was held. O'Connor had not put
in an appearance, nor had we heard from him since his and his wife's
hurried departure of the day before. Our side was not a very hopeful
party. True, Emley had cabled his attorney to give Mr. Cutting a proxy,
and it was now safe in Mr. Cutting's possession, with the others he had
obtained. But we were sure of only twenty-two thousand out of a total
of fifty thousand shares, and to our knowledge (now, alas! at the last
moment) the other side had been working like beavers to obtain proxies.
Still, there was a chance for us. It is as misleading to count your
proxies before they are voted, as to count your chickens before they
are hatched. Some of the enemy's might be revoked at any moment, or be
superseded by others bearing later dates. At any rate, preparation was
passed. The fight was on.
Mr. Cutting was seated at the side of the room, surrounded by a little
group of his fellow-directors and friends. I was beside the president,
the necessary books and papers at my hand, ready to perform my duties
as secretary. It was a position I held through Mr. Cutting's kindness
and influence. At last the president called the meeting to order.
The reading of the minutes of the previous meeting was dispensed with,
for which I was grateful. Something in the air told me that the enemy
were eager for action. As many formalities as could be were omitted or
summarily disposed of. The instant the treasurer's report had been read
and accepted, Mr. Walker, the ex-president, was on his feet.
Then followed a very able, if wholly misleading, attack upon the policy
pursued by the board of directors during their term of office. Mr. Walker
was a man of force and a good speaker; and his remarks had their effect
upon not a few uncertain ones, if one could judge by the look of approval
apparent on the faces of many who were present. But as he neared the end,
either his personal enmity toward Mr. Cutting or the excitement due to the
occasion, got the better of his judgment. He closed by a personal attack
upon the counsel, whom he characterized as "the non-commissioned general
who had cunningly devised this whole campaign of extravagance, wickedly
designed to elate and bamboozle the smaller stockholders, who, when the
inevitable result of such reckless expenditure should come—namely, a
crash—would find themselves obliged to sell their little hard-earned
holdings." "To whom," Mr. Walker ended, "it is hardly necessary for me
to say."
From where I sat I commanded a view of the door that led directly into
the corridor of the building. Just as Mr. Walker's spleen was beginning
to take possession of him, I saw this door open and O'Connor enter. He
was accompanied by a short, stocky, red-haired young Irishman, whom I
recognized as his bartender, "Chimmie."
The old chap looked hot and excited, but not tired, and far from dejected.
There was a new alertness about him, much like that you will see in an
old and experienced bull-terrier, who has every reason to believe that
the rat-trap is about to be opened. I watched him.
[Illustration: "A proxy is a godfather or a godmother whin they are
unabil to be prisint."—Page 226.]
With head bent forward, and with one bunchy hand curled like a warped
oyster-shell about his ear, he listened to every word. I saw him ask a
man next him who was speaking. I could tell that this was his question
by the effect the man's answer produced upon him. His eyebrows lowered
and contracted, and from beneath them he glared at "Jarge Double-ye,"
while the far from pleasant grin appeared, grew, and hardened about his
mouth. Meanwhile he was gradually edging his way forward, his faithful
companion at his elbow, nearer and nearer to the speaker. In the general
interest in Mr. Walker's remarks, few noticed the pair.
At last the descendant of the last King of Ireland was in a position
squarely in front of the speaker, and separated from him by the width
of the directors' long table, upon which now reposed the old tall hat
so familiar to me and to Mr. Cutting.
The instant Mr. Walker was seated, after his speech, he of the royal
blood seized his opportunity.
"Mr. Prisidint," he said, firmly and clearly, depositing his large red
cambric handkerchief in the hat beside him. The president bowed, saying:
"You have the floor, Mr. ——. Excuse me; you are a stockholder, I
suppose?"
"I am, sor."