|THE July sun beat fiercely on the tin slate roofs of the houses forming
square of Stafford. It was noon, business was at a standstill. The
clerks and typewriters in Walton's bank yawning and fanning themselves
heat. The only occupied individual in the building was the banker
himself, who was crouched over his desk in his little office making
calculations on a pad of paper with a pencil. Toby Lassiter was at
the window of the receiving-teller when an old man came in at the
folding-screen door and asked if he might see Mr. Walton personally. It
was Stephen Whipple, and he carried a travelling-bag in his hand; he was
covered with dust, and marked in the creases of his face by drifts of
fine cinders.
“I'll see, sir, if you'll wait a minute,” Toby answered, with his best
window-manners; then he went to his employer, and returned to pilot the
caller back to the office.
“Stranded on a trip and wants a check cashed without identification,”
was Toby's mental comment as he led the way. “Well, he's come to the
wrong man, as he will mighty soon find out.”
Whipple gave a searching glance at the man who was rising from the desk
with impatiently lifted brows. He put his bag down at his feet, but
failed to extend his hand, as Walton evidently expected him to do.
“Take a seat, sir, take a seat,” and the banker motioned to a chair near
the desk.
“Thanks.” The Westerner kicked his bag along toward the chair, and
sat down rather clumsily. He took out an enormous handkerchief, also
considerably begrimed, and mopped his perspiring face.
“You've got a hot town, sir,” Whipple said, introductively.
“Some say so, and some say not,” Walton replied, succinctly. “Well,
sir,” he continued, “is there anything I can do for you? The reason I
make so bold as to ask is because my clerk said you wanted to see me
_personally_.”
“Yes, it is of a sort of personal nature; at least, I reckon, you might
call it that,” and the merchant reached down and caught the handle of
his bag for no obvious reason than that he wanted to move it to a point
equidistant between his two splaying feet. Then he looked up, and there
was a decided flush of embarrassment in his face, which extended down
to the soiled collar on his pudgy neck. The banker, ever quick at
the reading of countenances, came to the conclusion that some sort of
unbusiness-like request in regard to needed funds was forthcoming, and
he was already framing his refusal.
“Well, sir--well, sir?” he said.
“The truth of the matter is that it is of _such_ a personal nature that
it is purty hard to know how to get started at it,” Whipple finally got
out. “Of course, I am a stranger to you, and I've come, too, without any
letters of introduction or papers of identification, and--is there any
danger of anybody listening?”
“None whatever--none on earth!” Walton sniffed, impatiently. “You can
talk at the top of your voice if you want to; the walls are thick;
besides, I don't have secrets, and I don't know as I am in the market
for any.”
“No, of course not, Mr. Walton.” The flush in the visitor's face was
dying out and giving place to an expression of rather anxious rigidity.
“Well, I am glad we won't be overheard, at any rate, for I want to talk
to you in behalf of your son.”
“Oh, that's it, huh? I see! I see!” And Walton swept the form before
him with eyes in which the lights of anger were slowly but positively
kindling. “It is about him, is it? Well, wait till I send this letter to
the mail. I'll be back, sir. I'll be back.”
“All right, Mr. Walton. There's no hurry.”
With the letter in his hand the banker rose as if from the sheer heat of
the growing anger within him and went out. Standing in the door of
the main counting-room he caught Lassiter's eye and signalled him to
approach. Giving him the letter, Walton said: “Mail that, and then come
back and keep a peeled eye on that fat chap at my desk. Do you remember
what I said when that three thousand dollars came from nowhere in
particular by express awhile back, along with the mealy-mouthed yarn
from Fred about changing his ways, and all that gush?”
“Yes, sir, I think so,” answered the startled Toby. “You said you
thought--”
“That it was a deep-laid plan amongst him and some other sharpers to
hoodwink me; and I told you, Toby, that I'd be willing to bet money that
it wouldn't be many days before somebody would hike along this way to
talk it over--some go-between, you understand. Well, he's in there now,
setting humped over his satchel like a spider watching a fly. He thinks
I'm the fly. I want to know what he's got to say. I want to see his
hand, you know, and I come out here to take a whiff of air and steady
myself so I wouldn't blurt out what I thought too quick and drive him
away. Keep your eye on him after he leaves me, Toby, and see which way
he goes. He looks to me like some shyster lawyer who has taken up the
matter and thinks he is smart enough to fool me. Somebody has invested
three thousand in this scheme, and the deal is to be clinched this
morning. Huh! I'll sorter tote 'im along, Toby, and see if I can get
onto his game,” and, with a sly and yet nervous wink, Walton turned
away.
“Yes, sir; all right now, sir,” he said, breezily, as he returned to
his desk and lowered himself into his chair. “We've got this room all to
ourselves, and are as snug as a bug in a rug, as the fellow said. Now,
fire ahead.”
“Of course, it must be a sort o' disagreeable subject for you to talk
about,” Whipple began, awkwardly, “and I'll admit to you, Mr. Walton,
that I thought over it a powerful long time before I finally made up my
mind to come.”
“Oh yes, of course,” Walton said, pulling his whiskers with his long
hand--“of course, you naturally would.”
“Especially as Fred had no idea of what I had in view,” the Westerner
said. “You see, I had to act wholly on my own responsibility.”
“Yes, I see--I see, sir.” It was only by an effort that Walton kept a
sarcastic ring of irritation out of his voice, and he stroked into
the roots of his beard a smile of contempt at such puerile attempts to
deceive.
“And that's what makes the whole thing so hard on me,” the merchant
went on. “You see, I took it on myself to act for Fred in, I might say,
actual opposition to his wishes and judgment.”
Whipple then proceeded to give a full and accurate account of his first
introduction to Fred and all that had happened to him since, withholding
only his own name and the name of the town he was from. And while he
talked, pausing to wipe his wet brow at times, or to clear his shaky
voice, the banker watched him as a cat might a mouse. He held a pencil
in his long, steady fingers, and kept the point of it on a pad of paper,
raising his shrewd glance and lowering it as suited his fancy. Had he
been an artist, old Simon might have sketched what to his understanding
was the most subtly designing face he had ever seen. Here was a man, he
told himself, who resorted even to the emotional methods of a ranting
revivalist to gain his nefarious aims. It was a wonderful conception,
but it wofully missed its mark, for it was being applied to a man who
had no emotions. It was being applied to a man, too, who was as eagerly
on the lookout for new tricks as a biologist for a new species of
insect. What a weakling the fellow was, for a man of that age, and what
fun it would be to suddenly undeceive him--let him know the manner of
man he was attempting, in such a shallow way, to bunco!
“Yes, I decided not to wait longer,” Whipple concluded, with a sigh. “I
didn't intend to act till the remaining three thousand was paid; but, as
I say, I--”
“It is only two, according to my calculations.” Walton thought he had
tripped him up, and smiled knowingly.
“Fred said he felt that another thousand, at least, was due as interest
at the rate you usually get.”
“Oh, I see; he's certainly liberal.” Walton smiled at his joke, and bent
his head over his pad to hide it.
“As I say,” the merchant resumed, “I intended to wait till the debt was
entirely paid, but things took a sudden turn that I didn't expect. I
offered to advance the money to Fred, but he wouldn't take it.”
“Oh, he wouldn't take it!” Walton said, with a hurried regret that Toby
was not present to enjoy the feast of stupidity being spread before
him. “I see; he didn't want it. That's a little bit like him.” Simon's
amusement showed itself now in his voice rather than in the visage which
he managed to keep unruffled. “But you say things had sorter taken a
twist around?”
“Yes; he was brave enough, and bearing up mighty well till me and him
took a trip, as much for pleasure as anything else, to New York, and we
passed through this very town, and--”
“So you passed through here?” Walton interrupted, and then to himself
he added: “I knew it. I knew Fred was hanging about Atlanta and sending
money to that woman. Huh, his fat agent is certainly giving the snap
away!”
“Yes, we passed through here one night, and, as our train was delayed
below town by a wreck ahead of us, Fred got out and walked around. He
was gone till after midnight, and when he came back to the Pullman where
I was I noticed that he was powerfully upset, and begun to suspect that
maybe this was his old home. He started to tell me about it then, but
I stopped him, and it was not till we had been to New York and got back
home that he finally told me your name and where you lived. As I said,
he has not been the same since then, and, to be honest with you, Mr.
Walton, I don't know of anything in the world that will restore his
peace of mind, except--”
“Except having me send for him,” Simon suddenly let himself go, “and
kill the fatted bull-yearling, and put a dinky-dinky cap on his brow,
and give him a key to the vault, and start in, hit or miss, exactly
where me and him left off!”
“You are hard on him, Mr. Walton,” Whipple gasped, fairly staggered by
the unexpected retort--“much harder, I must say, than I had hoped
to find you. He declared that you wasn't the sort that would forgive
easily, but, having been a father once myself, I didn't believe you
would, after hearing about your boy's life since he left you, refuse
to--”
“See here!” Walton interrupted, laying down his pencil and staring at
the visitor from eyes which fairly snapped with blended triumph and
rage, “you've held the floor long enough; now step aside and let me
take it. I don't know as I ever had the luck to run across just such
a specimen as you are. You've evidently had very little to do with
_business_ men. You seem to have as little common sense as a mountain
school-teacher or a young preacher on his first circuit. Here you come
with a long, roundabout, hatched-up tale that is so thin and full of
holes that a body could throw a straw hat through it. I'd have you
understand that this here house is a _bank_. My own granddaddy would
have to be identified, if he was alive, before he could cash a check
at that front window, and yet here you come--pitapat, pitapat, as
unconcerned as a house-cat looking for a place to lie down--back into
my private quarters, and propose something that may, or may not, involve
every dollar I own on the top-side of the earth. You do all that without
even taking the trouble to hint at who you are or where you hail from,
and--”
“I'm not afraid to give you my name!” the merchant gasped, taken
wholly off his guard by the withering attack. “It is Stephen Whipple,
sir--W-h-i-double p-l-e, Whipple!” he spelled, and he leaned forward
and pointed a stiff finger at Walton's pad. “Write it down. It might get
away from you.”
“Are you plumb sure it ain't _Jenkins?_” the banker grinned,
significantly.
“No; nor Jones, nor Smith, nor Brown. It's Whipple--Stephen Whipple. Put
it down on your paper. Huh, I'm not ashamed of it!”
“All right, there you are, in big letters.” Walton laughed, still
victoriously, as he pencilled the name on the pad. “Now, one other
formality, please--your postoffice address?”
“My post-office--” Whipple hesitated. His astounded gaze went down; he
was all of a quiver, even to his bushy eyebrows.
“Why, it's this way--this way--” he stammered, and, raising his helpless
eyes to the banker's taunting ones, he came to a dead halt.
“I think it _must_ be,” Walton chuckled. “In fact, it mighty nigh always
is that way when a feller gits in a corner. But surely, out of all the
places in the United States, you could think of _some_ town, railroad
station, or cross-roads store. A word as uncommon as _Whipple_ would be
hard for _me_ to think of in a pinch. It seemed to come handy to you.
Maybe you've used it before, or had some dead friend by that name.”
“You are not fair, sir!” The merchant was becoming exasperated by the
human riddle before him. “I told you I had come against your son's
knowledge or wish. He has kept his whereabouts from you up to now, and I
have no moral right to let it out. I reckon he is afraid you will hound
him down before he has a chance to pay back what he owes you. The Lord
knows, he has plenty of reason for being cautious, for, if I am any
judge, you are as hard and unforgiving as a stone wall.”
“I haven't seen any reason to forgive him, or bother one way or another
about it,” old Simon hurled into the flushed face before him. “I don't
see any difference between the way me and him stand now and six years
ago. I reckon he thinks I'm on my last legs, and that the three thousand
he got by some hook or crook--or _from_ some crook--would be well
invested as a gum-stickum plaster to put over my eyes before I am
put under ground. After he had staked that much, he thought some
oily-tongued friend of his might come and reconnoitre and report
favorable. Well, you've reconnoitred, Mr.--Mr. Whipstock, and you can
go back to Atlanta and tell him it is no go. You may tell him I am much
obliged to you all--whoever your gang is--for the three thousand on
account. I may be making a mistake now by shooting off my mouth so
quick, for if I had worked my cards right I might have secured another
payment by dropping a tear or two; but it is worth something to say what
I've said in the way I've said it.”
“So you don't believe what I have told you?” Whipple gasped, in
astonishment.
“Not a blessed word--not a syllable,” Walton laughed, and he threw
himself back in his chair in sheer enjoyment of his visitor's
discomfiture.
“You don't believe he is in my employment--you don't believe he earned
the money by faithful work which he sent you--you don't believe--”
Whipple paused, at the end of his resources.
“No, I don't believe even _that_,” Walton jested. “But I'll tell you one
thing, and I mean it. I don't intend to have you coming around bothering
me with this matter any more at all. It is strictly my affair, anyway.
That boy was a bad egg when he was here, and from the looks of you and
your game I can't see that he has improved a dang bit. I don't say I'd
arrest him, neither; half the debt has been paid, if it _was_ paid for a
sneaking reason, and he can rove where he will. He is a good riddance. I
used to bother about what might become of him, but I don't now.”
“Say, look me in the eye!” Whipple suddenly demanded, and with a
fierceness that almost sent a shock of surprise through the banker.
“You've not believed what I have told you, it seems, because you thought
I was after your dirty money. Hard cash is the only thing you _can_
believe in, I see, and so I am going to use some of it to convince you.
You have no faith in your son--the only child God gave you, and who is
now honoring your gray hairs as they don't deserve to be honored, but,
thank Heaven! I believe in him from head to foot. Before I left Atlanta,
this morning, I prepared myself for some sort of emergency like this.”
Whipple took out a long envelope and threw it on the desk under the
banker's eyes. “That contains three thousand dollars--six bills of five
hundred each. Take them! Your boy's debt is paid in full. I may have
spoiled his chances with _you_ by coming here against his knowledge, but
he shall not lose by it. If I live to get back home I shall provide for
him in my will. I may look like a faker, but I flatter myself--from all
I have heard of you--that I am worth more to-day in the financial world
than you could be if you could live another twenty-five years. Good-day,
sir.”