I
McAllister, with his friend Wainwright, was lounging before the fire in
the big room, having a little private Story Teller's Night of their own.
It was in the early autumn, and neither of the clubmen were really
settled in town as yet, the former having run down from the Berkshires
only for a few days, and the latter having just landed from the Cedric.
The sight of Tomlinson, who appeared tentatively in the distance and
then, receiving no encouragement, stalked slowly away, reminded
Wainwright of something he had heard in Paris.
"I base my claim to your sympathetic credence, McAllister, upon the
impregnable rock of universally accepted fact that Tomlinson is a
highfalutin ass. I see that you agree. Very good, then; I proceed. In
the first place, you must know that our anemic friend decided last
spring that the state of his health required a trip to Paris. He
therefore went--alone. The reason is obvious. Who should he fall in
with at the Hotel Continental but a gentleman named Buncomb--Colonel C.
T. P. Buncomb, a person with a bullet-hole in the middle of his
forehead, who claimed to belong to a most exclusive Southern family in
Savannah. Incidentally he'd been in command of a Georgia regiment in the
Civil War and had been knocked in the head at Gettysburg--one of those
big, flabby fellows with white hair. If all Tomlinson says about his
capacity to chew Black Strap and absorb rum is accurate, I reckon the
Colonel was right up to weight and could qualify as an F. F. V. He knew
everybody and everything in Paris; passed up our friend right along the
Faubourg Saint Germain; and introduced him to a lot of duchesses and
countesses--that is, Tomlinson _says_ they were. Can't you see 'em,
swaggerin' down the Champs-Élysées arm in arm? In addition, he took our
mournful acquaintance to all the _cafés chantants_ and students' balls,
and gave him sure things on the races. Oh, that Colonel must have been a
regular doodle-bug!
"In due course Tomlinson gathered that his new friend was a mining
expert taking a short vacation and just blowing in an extra half million
or so. He believed it. You see, he had never met any of them at the
Waldorf at home. He was also introduced to a young man in the same line
of business, named Larry Summerdale, who seemed to have plenty of money,
and was likewise _au fait_ with the aristocracy.
"Well, one night, after they had been to the Bal Boullier and had had a
little supper at the Jockey Club, the Colonel became a trifle more
confidential than usual, and let drop that their friend Summerdale had a
brother employed as private secretary by a copper king who owned a
wonderful mine out in Arizona called The Silver Bow. The stock in this
concern had originally been sold at five dollars a share, but recently a
rich vein had been struck and the stock had quadrupled in value. No one
knew of this except the officers of the company, who, of course, were
anxious to buy up all they could find. They had located most of it
easily enough, but there were two or three lots that had thus far eluded
them. Among these was the largest single block of stock in existence,
owned by the son of the original discoverer of the prospect. He had two
thousand shares, and was blissfully ignorant of the fact that they were
worth forty thousand dollars. Just where this chap was no one seemed to
know, but his name was Edwin H. Blake, and he was supposed to be in
Paris. It appeared that the Colonel and Larry were watching out for
Blake with the charitable idea of relieving him of his stock at five,
and selling it for twenty in the States.
"Next day, if you'll believe it, the Colonel didn't remember a thing;
became quite angry at Tomlinson's supposing he'd take advantage of any
person in the way suggested; explained that he must have been drinking,
and begged him to forget everything that might have been said. Of
course, Tomlinson dropped the subject, but after that the Colonel and he
rather drifted apart. Then quite by accident, two or three weeks later,
our friend stumbled on Blake himself--met him right on the race-track,
through a Frenchman named Depau.
"Now our innocent friend had been sort of lonely ever since he'd lost
sight of Buncomb, and this Blake turned out to be an awfully good sort.
Tomlinson naturally inquired if he'd ever met the Colonel or Larry
Summerdale, but he never had, and finally they took an apartment
together."
"He must have been pleased when Tomlinson told him about the value of
his stock," remarked McAllister, lighting another cigar.
"I'm comin' to that," replied Wainwright. "It seems that Tomlinson so
far forgot his early New England traditions as to covet that stock
himself. Shockin', wasn't it?
"One day, when they were lunching at the Trois Freres, our friend
hinted that he was interested in mining stock. Blake laughed, and
replied that if Tomlinson owned as much as he did of the stuff he
wouldn't want to see another share as long as he lived, and added that
he was loaded up with a lot of worthless stock--two thousand shares--in
an old prospect in Arizona that he had inherited from his father, and
wasn't worth the paper the certificate was printed on. The leery
Tomlinson admitted having heard of the mine, but gave it as his
impression that it had possibilities.
"Then he had a sudden headache, and went out and cabled to The Silver
Bow offices at the _World_ building here in New York to find out what
the company would pay for the stock. In an hour or two he got an answer
stating that they were prepared to give twenty dollars a share for not
less than two thousand shares. Good, eh?
"Well, next day he led the conversation round again to mining stocks,
and finally offered to buy Blake's holdings for five dollars a share.
When the latter hesitated, Tomlinson was so afraid he'd lose the stock
that he almost raised his bid to fifteen; but Blake only laughed, and
said that he had no intention of robbing one of his friends, and that
the old stuff really wasn't worth a cent. Tomlinson became quite
indignant, suggested that perhaps he knew more about that particular
mine than even Blake did, and finally overcame the latter's scruples
and persuaded him to sell. Then Tomlinson disposed of some bonds by
cable, and that evening gave Blake a draft for fifty thousand francs in
exchange for his two thousand share certificate in The Silver Bow of
Arizona. He told me it had a picture of a miner with a pick-ax and a
mule standing against the rising sun on it. Sort of allegorical, don't
you think?
"Blake continued to protest that our friend was being cheated, and
offered to buy it back at any time; but Tomlinson's one idea was to get
to New York as fast as possible. He had cabled that the stock was on the
way, and that very night he slid out of Paris and caught the
Norddeutscher Lloyd at Cherbourg. I inferred that he occupied the bridal
chamber on the way back all by himself.
"The instant they landed he jumped in a cab and started for the _World_
building; but when he got there he couldn't find any Silver Bow Mining
Company. It had evaporated. It had been there right enough--for ten
days--the ten days Tomlinson calculated that it had taken Blake to sell
him the stock. But no one knew where it had gone or what had become of
it.
"Well, of course," kept on Wainwright, "he nearly went crazy; cabled the
police in Paris and had 'em all arrested, including Colonel Buncomb;
and took the next steamer back. He says they had the trial in a little
police court in the Palais de Justice. Buncomb had hired Maître Labori
to defend him. Everybody kept their hats on, and apparently they all
shouted at once. The Judge was the only one that kept his mouth shut at
all. Tomlinson told his story through an interpreter, and charged
Buncomb, Summerdale, and Blake with conspiracy to defraud.
"When the Colonel realized what it was all about he jumped into the
middle of the room, pushed his silk hat back of his ears, flapped his
coat-tails, and sailed into 'em in good old Southern style. I tell you
he must have made the eagle scream. He was a Colonel in the Confederate
Army, he was--the Thirtieth Georgia. The whole thing was a miserable
French scheme to blackmail him. He'd appeal to the American Ambassador.
He'd see if a parcel of French soup-makers and a police judge could
interfere with the Constitution of the United States. Every once in a
while he'd yell '_Conspuez_' or '_À bas_' and sort of froth at the
mouth. He made a great big impression. Then Maître Labori got in _his_
licks. He said Tomlinson was a wolf in sheep's clothing--a rascal--a
'vilain m'sieur,' whatever that is.
"Finally he inquired, with a very unpleasant smile, if Buncomb had ever
asked him to buy any stock?
"Tomlinson had to say 'No.'
"Did Larry Summerdale?
"'No'
"Didn't Blake tell him the stock was worthless?
"'Yes.'
"How did he know the stock wasn't worth what he paid for it?
"'Well, he didn't absolutely.'
"The Labori said something with a long rattling 'r' in it like a snake,
and turned with a gesture of extreme contempt to the Judge. He remarked
that one glance of comparison between Colonel Buncomb and Tomlinson
would show which was the gentleman and which was the rogue. Then the
first thing our friend knew the court had adjourned--they had all been
turned out--discharged--acquitted. But the thing that most disgusted
Tomlinson was that as he was coming away he saw the whole push, the
Colonel and Larry and Blake, all piling into a big Panhard autocar. They
passed him going about eighty miles an hour. You see, Tomlinson had paid
for that car, and he'd always wanted one to run himself. The last he
heard of 'em they were tearing up the Riviera."
"And what did Tomlinson do then?" asked McAllister.
"There was nothing he could do in Paris, so he came home on a ten-day
boat and went to visit his uncle up at Methuen, Mass. Gay place,
Methuen! Saturday night you can ride down to Lawrence on the electric
car for a nickel and hear the band play in front of the gas works. But
the simple life has done him good."