BILLS PAYABLE
At six o’clock every morning Mr. Jeremiah Amidon’s alarm-clock sent
him trotting down the hall of his boarding-house to the bathroom for
an immersion in cold water. When he had carefully dressed himself, he
pulled weights for ten minutes, and thus refreshed and strengthened was
able to wring a smile from the saddest boarder at the breakfast table.
He now opened the office mail. No one knew who had conferred this
responsibility upon him; all that any one knew about the matter was
that Jerry got down first and had the job done usually by eight
o’clock. He did it well; there was no denying that. It was the only
way, he told Copeland, that you could keep track of the business.
He assumed also the task of replying to complaints of protesting
customers, and carried the replies to Copeland to sign. The errors,
omissions, and delays complained of became, under Jerry’s hand,
a matter of chagrin and personal grief to the head of the house.
These literary performances were in a key of cheerful raillery, made
possible by his knowledge of the domestic affairs or social habits of
the kicking customer. Where there was real ground for complaint and
the patron was a valued one, Jerry telegraphed an apology. Copeland
demurred at this.
“What if that fellow does get a damaged shipment occasionally?” said
Copeland, frowning over one of these messages; “he’s one of the slowest
customers on our list. It wouldn’t be any great calamity if we lost
him.”
“He’s slow all right,” Jerry admitted, “but he’s dead sure; and he has
an old uncle who owns about a section of the fattest bottom land on the
Wabash. When the old gent dies, Sam’s going to put up a building for
himself and build a drug store that will be more beautiful than Solomon
in full evening dress.”
“These old uncles never die,” observed Copeland dryly, handing back the
telegram.
“Sam’s will. He’s mostly paralyzed now and it won’t be long till we get
an order for a new stock. Sam was in town last week and talked over the
fittings for his new store. You’ll find seven dollars in my expense
account that covers victuals and drink I threw into Samuel; but I paid
for the tickets to the Creole Queens Burlesque out of my own pocket
so’s to bring down my average.”
“All right; let ’er go,” laughed Copeland.
No one else in the establishment ever joked with Copeland. His father
had been a melancholy dyspeptic; and the tradition of Farley’s bad
temper and profanity still caused the old employees to walk softly.
Copeland found Jerry’s freshness and cheek diverting. Jerry, by
imperceptible degrees, was infusing snap into the organization. And
Copeland knew that the house needed snap.
“About telegrams: I guess we do more telegraphing than any house on
the street!” Jerry informed him. “You can send a jolly by lightning
anywhere in Indiana for a quarter; and nothing tickles one of these
country fellows like getting a telegram.”
“You’ve got to consider the dignity of the house just a little bit; try
to remember that.”
“Our game,” replied Jerry confidently, “is to hold the business
we’ve got and get more. The old system’s played out. This isn’t the
only house that feels it,” he added consolingly. “Everybody’s got to
rustle these days. We’re conservative, of course, and deliver the
goods straight every time, but we must keep shooting pep into the
organization.”
Jerry had gone to the private office with one of his sugar letters, as
he called his propitiatory masterpieces, on the day after Copeland’s
meeting with Nan at the Kinneys’.
“By the way, Jerry,” said Copeland, as Amidon turned to go, “what’s
this joke you’ve put over in the Bigger Business Club? I didn’t tell
anybody I wanted to be president. I was never in the club-rooms but
once and that was to look at that billiard table I gave the boys.”
Jerry ran his finger round the inside of his collar and blinked
innocently.
“It was just an uprising of the people, Mr. Copeland. The boys had
to have you. You got two hundred votes, and Sears, of the Thornwood
Furniture Company, was the next man with only sixty-two.”
“You did that, you young scoundrel,” said Copeland good humoredly, “and
I suppose you gave ‘The News’ my picture to print in their account of
the hotly contested election!”
“No, sir; I only told the reporter where I thought he would find one.”
The Bigger Business Club was an organization of clerks and traveling
men, that offered luncheon and billiards and trade journals in a suite
of rooms in the Board of Trade Building. It took itself very seriously,
and was highly resolved to exercise its best endeavors in widening the
city’s markets. Incidentally the luncheon served at thirty cents was
the cheapest in town, and every other Saturday night during the winter
there was a smoker where such subjects as “Selling Propositions,” “The
Square Deal” and “Efficiency” were debated.
“Well, now that you’ve wished it on me, what am I going to do about it?”
“Your election scores one for the house and, of course, you’re going
to take the job. The directors meet once a month, and you’ll have to
attend some of the meetings; and you ought to turn out at a few of
the smokers, anyhow. It will help the boys a lot to have you show an
interest.”
Copeland’s face became serious. He swung round in his chair and stared
at the wall for a moment.
“You think I might do those young fellows some good, do you?” he
demanded bitterly. “Well, you seem to have a better opinion of me than
most people. I’m much obliged to you, Jerry. If you’re going up there
for lunch to-day I’ll go along.”
Copeland had ceased to be amused by Jerry’s personal devotion; there
was something the least bit pathetic in it. If any one else had taken
the trouble to make him president of a club of clerks and drummers he
would have scorned it,--but no one else would have taken the trouble!
He was satisfied of that.
Copeland was at last thoroughly sobered by his financial situation. For
two years the drug business had been losing steadily. Farley’s strong
hand was missed; in spite of his animosity toward Farley, Copeland
realized that his father’s old partner had been the real genius of the
business.
His original subscription of fifty thousand dollars for Kinney’s
cement stock had been increased from time to time in response to the
importunities of the sanguine and pushing Kinney until he now had three
hundred thousand dollars invested. The bank had declined to accept
his cement stock as collateral for the loan he was obliged to ask to
take up Farley’s notes and had insisted that he put up Copeland-Farley
stock, a demand with which he had reluctantly complied.
One hundred thousand dollars of paper in the Western National matured
on the 1st of November, only five days distant. Copeland was pondering
a formidable list of maturing obligations that afternoon when Eaton
appeared at the door of his private office. Copeland had never had
any business with Eaton. Though Eaton was defending Kinney’s patents,
Copeland had never attended any of their conferences and the lawyer’s
attenuated figure and serious countenance gave him a distinct shock.
It was possible, if not likely, that Farley had got wind of Nan’s
interview with him and had sent the lawyer with a warning that
Nan must be let alone. Eaton would be a likely choice for such an
errand--likelier than Thurston. Copeland had always found Eaton’s
gravity disconcerting; and to-day the lawyer seemed unusually sedate.
“Hope I haven’t chosen an unfortunate hour for my visit? I don’t have
much business down this way and I’m never sure when you men on the
street are busy.”
“Glad to see you at any time,” Copeland replied with a cordiality he
did not feel.
“We don’t seem to meet very often,” remarked Eaton. “I used to see you
at the University Club in old times, but you’ve been cutting us out
lately.”
“I don’t get there very often. The Hamilton is nearer the store and
it’s a little more convenient place to meet anybody you want to see.”
“I shall have to quit the University myself if the members don’t
stop napping in the library after luncheon,” remarked Eaton musingly.
“Rather a dim room, you remember? Only a few afternoons ago a fellow
was sprawled out on a divan sleeping sweetly and I sat down on
him--very annoying. The idea of gorging yourself so in the middle of
the day that you’ve got to sleep it off is depressing. I suppose we can
be undisturbed here for a few minutes?”
“Yes; we’re all right here,” Copeland assented with misgivings. He
thrust the list of accounts payable into a drawer, and waited for Eaton
to unfold himself.
“I come on a delicate matter, Copeland; business that is rather out of
my line.”
“I hoped you’d come to tell me we’d got a decision in the cement case.
It would cheer us a good deal to know that Kinney’s patents have been
sustained.”
“I’m sorry we haven’t got a decision yet. But I’m reasonably sure of
success there. If I hadn’t had faith in Kinney’s patents I shouldn’t
have undertaken to defend them. We ought to have a decision now very
shortly; any day, in fact.”
“Well, Kinney isn’t worrying; he’s been going ahead just as though his
rights were founded on rock.”
“I think they are. It might have been better policy not to extend the
business until we had clearance papers from the highest court, but
Kinney thought he ought to push on while the going’s good. He’s an
ambitious fellow, and the stuff he makes is in demand; but you know
more about that than I do.”
“To be frank about it, I’d be glad to clear out of it,” said Copeland.
“But I can’t desert him while his patents are in question--the stock’s
unsalable now, of course.”
“There was a time when we might have compromised those suits on fairly
good terms; but I advised Kinney against it. The responsibility of
making the fight is mine. And,” Eaton added with one of his rare
smiles, “I shall owe you all an apology if I get whipped.”
Copeland shrugged his shoulders. His uncertainty as to the nature of
Eaton’s errand caused him to fidget nervously.
“As I said before,” Eaton resumed, “my purpose in coming to see you
is wholly out of my line. In fact, I shan’t be surprised if you call
it sheer impudence; but I wish to assure you that I come in the best
spirit in the world. I hope you will understand that.”
Copeland was confident now that Eaton brought some message from Farley.
There was no other imaginable explanation of the visit. He was thinking
hard, and to gain time he opened his top drawer and extended a box of
cigars.
“No, thanks,” said Eaton, staring absently at the cigars. “To repeat,
Copeland, my errand isn’t an agreeable one, and I apologize for my
presumption in undertaking it.”
Copeland chose a cigar carefully and slammed the drawer on the box.
Perhaps Farley had chosen Eaton as a proper person to marry Nan; she
liked him; Eaton had always had an unaccountable fascination for women.
He became impatient for the lawyer to continue; but Eaton had never
been more maddeningly deliberate.
“May I assume, for a moment, Copeland, that you have obligations
outstanding that cause you, we will say, temporary embarrassment?
Just a moment, please!” Copeland had moved forward suddenly in his
chair with resentment burning hot in his face. “The assumption may be
unwarranted,” Eaton continued; “if so, I apologize.”
Copeland thrust his cigar into his mouth and bit it savagely. Farley
had undoubtedly taken over the maturing notes at the Western National
and had sent Eaton to taunt him with the change of ownership.
Eaton removed his eyeglasses and polished them with the whitest of
handkerchiefs. His eyes, unobscured by the thick lenses, told Copeland
nothing.
“I may have misled you into thinking that my errand is purely social.
I shall touch upon business; but I am not personally concerned in it
in any way whatever. You might naturally conclude that I represent
some corporation, bank, or trust company. I assure you that I do not.
It may occur to you that Mr. Farley sent me, but he has not mentioned
you to me in this, or in any other connection remotely bearing upon my
errand. You may possibly suspect that some one near you--some one in
your office, for example--has been telling tales out of school. I will
say explicitly that young Amidon, while a friend of mine, and a boy I
particularly like, has given me no hint--not even the remotest idea--of
any such state of things. I hope you are satisfied on those points?”
Many persons at different times in John Cecil Eaton’s life, enraged by
his cool, unruffled demeanor, had been moved to tell him to go to the
devil; but no one had ever done so. Copeland did not do so now, though
he was strongly impelled to violent speech.
“I will go the length of saying that you are in considerable danger
right now,” Eaton went on as Copeland continued to watch him
impassively. “If the Western National should foreclose on your stock,
you would be pretty nearly wiped out of this old concern, that was
founded and conducted for years by your father and is still identified
with his name. I am in a position to pay those notes and carry
them--carry renewals until you can take them up. I will say frankly
that I don’t consider them a good investment, and I have said so to the
person I represent; but to repeat again, I am not here as a lawyer or
business man. My purpose is wholly friendly, and quite disinterested.
I should merely go to the bank and take up the notes--thus destroying
the hopes of certain gentlemen--your competitors in business--who
entertain the cheerful idea of buying in your stock and putting you
out of business. That would be a calamity--for you; and it would be
deplorable to have an old house like Copeland-Farley lose its identity.”
Copeland was still silent. He had caught at one motive for this
visit after another, but Eaton had disposed of all of them. Eaton’s
reputation as a man of strict--of rather quixotic--honor did not
encourage the belief that he would deliberately lie. But there was a
trap concealed somewhere, Copeland reflected; he resolved not to be
caught. If he effected an immediate marriage with Nan, Farley would,
he believed, do something handsome for her. He would storm and bluster
in his usual way; but he would hardly dare go the length of cutting
her off entirely. It was conceivable that he might advance money to
save Copeland-Farley from catastrophe. There was a vein of sentiment
in Timothy Farley; brought face to face with the idea of having the
business he had done so much to establish eliminated, it was wholly
possible that he would come down handsomely if Nan were introduced into
the situation as a factor.
Copeland was irritated by Eaton’s cocksure manner--a manner well
calculated to cause irritation. Men did not make such offers from
purely philanthropic motives. Eaton, moreover, was no friend of
his; they hardly spoke the same language. Nan, he still suspected,
was somehow the object and aim of these overtures. His mind worked
quickly. He meant to marry Nan at once, within a few days if his plans
succeeded, and he was not to be frustrated by any scheme for placing
himself at the mercy of a new and concealed creditor.
“I’m much obliged to you, Eaton,” he answered steadily; “but I’m not
quite all in yet. I can’t imagine where you got that idea. If I didn’t
know you were a gentleman I should be pretty hot. Things have been a
little tight with me, I confess; but that’s largely due to cutting down
my capital in the drug business to back up what I had invested with
Kinney. I’m working out satisfactorily and don’t need help; but I’m
obliged to you just the same.”
Eaton nodded reflectively; his face betrayed no surprise.
“It might be possible, of course, for me to buy those maturing notes
without your knowledge or consent. But I thought it would look
better--help your credit, in other words--if you took them up yourself.
You can see that.”
Copeland had already thought of this; the idea did not add to his
comfort. The mystery that enveloped Eaton enraged him; business was not
done in this way. If anybody wanted to put one hundred thousand dollars
into the drug house, there were direct businesslike ways of suggesting
it. He tipped himself back in his chair and pointed the unlighted cigar
he had been fumbling at a calendar that hung on the wall over his desk.
“My paper in the Western National isn’t due for five days: I dare
them to sell it--to you or anybody else! As you know perfectly well,
it would be bad banking ethics for a bank to sell the paper of an
old customer. It isn’t done! I’ve about made up my mind to quit the
Western, anyhow. Those fellows over there think they’ve got the right
to sweat every customer they’ve got. They’re not bankers; they’ve got
the souls of pawnbrokers and ought to be making loans on household
goods at forty per cent a month.”
“That,” replied Eaton calmly, “has nothing to do with the matter in
hand. I understand that you decline my offer, which is to take up the
Western’s notes.”
“You’re right, mighty right! You wouldn’t accept such an offer
yourself, Eaton. If I were to come to you with a mysterious offer to
advance you money, you’d turn me out of your office.”
“Very likely,” Eaton assented. “And I don’t undertake to defend the
idea; I confess that it’s indefensible. As I understand you, you’ve
passed on the matter finally.”
“I have,” replied Copeland sharply.
Eaton rose. He bent his gaze with an absent air upon the calendar, as
though surprised to find it there. Then, seeming to recall that he had
finished his errand, he walked to the door.
“Thank you very much, Copeland,” he said; and passed out.
Jerry Amidon paused in the act of shaking hands with a country customer
to stare at the departing figure, but Eaton stalked austerely into the
street quite unmindful of him.