"BROADWAY BILL"
William Carmody had scarcely completed his careful grooming when, with
a tap at the door, his father entered, closely followed by a rather
burly individual in citizen's clothing, whose jaw was correctly and
artistically swathed in bandages.
The two advanced a few paces into the room and paused. Father and son
regarded each other in silence. At length the older man spoke:
"Where were you last night?"
William flushed at the tone and cast an inquiring glance at the man in
bandages, who awkwardly shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
His father motioned him to proceed.
"I was out with a bunch from Philly. Chesterton, '05; Burke, '03;
little Hammond, '06; and old Busk Brater, star guard of the
naughty-naughts."
"Drunk, were you?" The words sounded coldly impersonal, and the tone
showed no surprise.
"Why, no, that is, I wouldn't exactly say----" his father silenced him
with a gesture.
"Did you ever see this man before?"
William scrutinized the other carefully.
"I think not."
"Oh, you hain't, eh?"
The man's awkwardness disappeared, he advanced a step and it was
evident that he spoke with difficulty.
"How about last night in front of Shanley's? Guess you wasn't there,
eh? Guess I just dreamt about a bunch of souses turkey-trottin' along
the sidewalk? I'd of stood for it, at that, but the girls got to
pullin' it too raw even for Broadway.
"I know'd you by sight an' started in to give you the tip to put the
soft pedal on the wiggle stuff, when, zowie! I guess you didn't reach
out an' soak me--a cop!" He tapped the bandage upon the aggressively
advanced jaw.
"Maybe the Times Building just tangoed across the square an' fell on
me!" he went on with ponderous sarcasm. "An' that ain't all; when I
gathers myself up, here's the tail-lights of a couple of taxis
disappearin' into Forty-fourth Street, an' the crowd laughin' an'
joshin' me somethin' fierce. I guess I dreamt that, too, eh?
"An' that ain't the worst of it. Down to headquarters I draws a
thirty-day space--without! An' then, again, I guess they'll shove me
right along for promotion on top of this. Not! I tell you I'm in bad
all the ways around, with the whole force passin' me the grin an'
askin' me have I saw Broadway Bill lately? An' in comes the inspector
this mornin' with an order when I came back on, to report to McClusky,
up in Harlem, an' help shoo the goats away from eatin' up the new
sidewalks in front of the five-dollar-instalment lots.
"Nice kettle of fish for me, that was in line for a lieut. I ain't
layin' it up again' you so much for the jolt; you're sure there with
the punch, nor for the thirty-day space, neither, though with my family
I can't afford that none. But, damn it, kid, you've broke me! With this
here again' me I'll never be a lieut in a thousand years. I'm done!"
During the recital, the officer's voice lost its belligerent tone. He
spoke as man to man, with no hint of self-pity. Young Carmody was
honestly sorry. Here was a man who, in the act of giving him a friendly
warning, had been felled by a brutal and unexpected blow. A hot blush
of shame reddened his cheeks. He was about to speak but was interrupted
by the voice of his father.
The old man seemed suddenly to have aged. His fine features, always
pallid, appeared a shade paler. Gone was the arrogant poise of the head
which for forty years had dominated boards of directors. The square-set
shoulders drooped wearily, and in the eyes was the tired, dumb look of
a beaten man.
"Officer, it seems hardly necessary for me to express my thanks for the
consideration you have shown in coming directly to me with this
matter," he said at last. "Had you been so inclined you could have
stirred up a nasty mess of it, and no one would have blamed you."
He stepped to a small table and, seating himself, produced check-book
and pen.
"I trust this will reimburse you for any financial loss you may have
incurred by reason of this most unfortunate affair," he went on; "and
as for the rest, leave that to me. I have, I believe, some little
influence at headquarters, and I shall personally call upon the
inspector."
The officer glanced at the slip of paper which the other thrust into
his hand. It was written in four figures. He looked up. Something in
the old man's attitude--the unspoken pain in the eyes--the pathetic
droop of the shoulders, struck a responsive chord in the heart of the
officer.
Impulsively he extended the hand in which the check remained unfolded.
"Here, Mr. Carmody, I can't take your money. You didn't get me right. I
start out to knife you for what I can get, an' you wind up by treatin'
me white. It wasn't your fault, nohow, an' I didn't know how you felt
about--things."
There may have been just the shadow of a smile at the corners of Hiram
Carmody's mouth as he waved a dismissal.
"We will consider the incident closed," he said.
At the door the officer turned to the younger man, who had been a
silent listener.
"It's a pity to waste yourself that way. It's a punk game, kid, take it
from me--they don't last! Where's your Broadway Bills of ten years ago?
Stop an' think, kid. Where are they at?"
"My God," he muttered, as he passed down the broad stairway, "how many
old fathers in New York is hidin' their feelin's behind a bold front,
an' at the same time eatin' their hearts out with worry for their boys!
An' folks callin' _them_ good fellows!
"Money ain't everything in this here world, after all," he added, as
his gaze traveled over the paintings and tapestries that lined the
great hall.
Above stairs an uncomfortable atmosphere of constraint settled upon
father and son. Both felt the awkwardness of the situation.
Young Carmody was a man with a heart as warm as his ways were wild. His
was an impulsive nature which acted upon first impressions. Loving
alike a fight or a frolic, he entered into either with a zest that made
of them events to be remembered. He glanced across to where his father
stood beside the table toying with a jade ink-well, and noted the
unwonted droop of the shoulders and the unfamiliar gaze of the gray
eyes in which the look of arrogance had dulled almost to softness--a
pathetic figure, standing there in his own house--alone--unloved--a
stranger to his only son.
The boy saw for the first time, not the banker, the dictator of high
finance--but the _man_. Could it be that here was something he had
missed? That through the long years since the death of his wife, the
sweet-faced mother whom the boy remembered so vividly, this strange,
inscrutable old man had craved the companionship of his son--had loved
him?
At that moment, had the elder man spoken the word--weakened, he would
have called it--the course of lives would have been changed. But the
moment passed. Hiram Carmody's shoulders squared to their accustomed
set, and his eyes hardened as he regarded his son.
"Well?" The word rang harsh, with a rising inflection that stung. The
younger man made no reply and favored the speaker with a level stare.
"And _you_ a Carmody!"
"Yes, I am a Carmody! But, thank God, I am only half Carmody! It is no
fault of mine that I bear the Carmody name! At heart I am a McKim!"
The young man's eyes narrowed, and the words flashed defiantly from his
lips. The shaft struck home. It was true. From the boy's babyhood the
father had realized it with fear in his heart.
The beautiful, dashing girl he had wooed so long ago; had married, and
had loved more deeply than she ever knew, was Eily McKim, descendant of
the long line of Fighting McKims, whose men-children for five hundred
years had loomed large in the world-wars of nations. Men of red blood
and indomitable courage--these, who pursued war for the very love of
the game, and who tasted blood in every clime, and under the flag of
every nation. Hard-riding, hard-drinking, hard-fighting cavaliers, upon
whose deeds and adventures the staid, circumspect Carmodys looked
aghast. And this girl-wife, whose soft eyes and gentle nature had won
his love, had borne him a son, and by some freak of atavism had
transmitted to him the turbulent spirit of the Fighting McKims.
Again the old man spoke, and his voice was the voice that Wall Street
knew--and feared.
"I suppose you are well pleased with yourself. You are referred to as
one of 'a bunch of souses.' You were 'pulling it too raw even for
Broadway.' You are known to fame as 'Broadway Bill.' You are a sport!
You, and your college friends. And last night you achieved the crowning
success of your career--you 'soaked a cop'! You, the last of a line of
men, who for a hundred years have dominated the finances of a nation!
You, the last of the Carmodys, are Broadway Bill, _the sport!_"
The biting scorn of his father's tone was not lost upon the younger
man, who paled to the lips.
"Where are the securities you were supposed to have delivered to
Strang, Liebhardt & Co.?"
"Here, in my desk. I intended to deliver them on my way to the bank
this morning. The boys blew in yesterday and it was up to me to show
them around a bit."
"I will relieve you of the securities. The deal with Strang, Liebhardt
& Co. is off. It depended upon the delivery of those bonds during
banking hours yesterday."
Without a word William crossed to the desk and, withdrawing a packet
sealed in a heavy manila envelope, handed it to his father.
"The bank no longer requires your services," went on the old man
coldly. "That a Carmody should prove himself absolutely untrustworthy
and unreliable is beyond my ken. I do not intend to take you to task
for your manner of living. It is a course many have chosen with varying
results. You have made your bed--now lie in it. I need only say that I
am bitterly disappointed in my son. Henceforth we are strangers.
"Here is my personal check for ten thousand dollars. That is the last
cent of Carmody money you will receive. Properly invested it will yield
you a competence. Many men have builded fortunes upon less. As pocket
money for a Broadway Bill it will soon be squandered."
Mechanically the younger man picked up the check from the table.
"I think, sir," he answered, "that you have succeeded in making
yourself perfectly clear. As a Carmody, I am a failure. You spoke of an
investment. I am about to make one of which any McKim would approve."
With slow, deliberate movements he tore the check into tiny pieces and
scattered them upon the carpet. "I shall leave your house," he
continued, meeting the other's gaze squarely, "without a dollar of
Carmody money, but with ten thousand dollars' worth of McKim
self-respect. Good-by."
There was a note of cold finality in those last two words and the elder
Carmody involuntarily extended his hand. He quitted the room abruptly
as the boy, ignoring the civility, turned away.
An hour later William walked hurriedly down the steps of the Carmody
mansion and, with never a backward glance, hailed a taxi and was
whirled rapidly uptown.