A BUSINESS PROPOSITION
The cycle of weeks brought them to January. They had dropped into
something of a routine in their daily lives. Bill's interest and
participation in social affairs became negligible. Of Hazel's circle
he classed some half dozen people as desirable acquaintances, and saw
more or less of them--Kitty Brooks and her husband; Vesta Lorimer, a
keen-witted young woman upon whom nature had bestowed a double portion
of physical attractiveness and a talent akin to genius for the painting
of miniatures; her Brother Paul, who was the silent partner in a
brokerage firm; Doctor Hart, a silent, grim-visaged physician, whose
vivacious wife was one of Hazel's new intimates. Of that group Bill
was always a willing member. The others he met courteously when he was
compelled to meet them; otherwise he passed them up entirely.
When he was not absorbed in a book or magazine, he spent his time in
some downtown haunt, having acquired membership in a club as a
concession to their manner of life. Once he came home with flushed
face and overbright eyes, radiating an odor of whisky. Hazel had never
seen him drink to excess. She was correspondingly shocked, and took no
pains to hide her feelings. But Bill was blandly undisturbed.
"You don't need to look so horrified," he drawled. "I won't beat you
up nor wreck the furniture. Inadvertently took a few too many, that's
all. Nothing else to do, anyhow. Your friend Brooks' Carlton Club is
as barren a place as one of your tea fights. They don't do anything
much but sit around and drink Scotch and soda, and talk about the
market. I'm drunk, and glad of it. If I were in Cariboo Meadows,
now," he confided owlishly, "I'd have some fun with the natives. You
can't turn yourself loose here. It's too blame civilized and proper.
I had half a notion to lick a Johnnie or two, just for sport, and then
I thought probably they'd have me up for assault and battery. Just
recollected our social reputation--long may she wave--in time."
"_Your_ reputation certainly won't be unblemished if any one saw you
come in in that condition," she cried, in angry mortification. "Surely
you could find something better to do than to get drunk."
"I'm going straight to bed, little person," he returned. "Scold not,
nor fret. William will be himself again ere yet the morrow's sun shall
clear the horizon. Let us avoid recrimination. The tongue is, or
would seem to be, the most vital weapon of modern society. Therefore
let us leave the trenchant blade quiescent in its scabbard. _I'd_
rather settle a dispute with my fists, or even a gun. Good night."
He made his unsteady way to their extra bedroom, and he was still there
with the door locked when Hazel returned from a card party at the
Krones'. It was the first night they had spent apart since their
marriage, and Hazel was inclined to be huffed when he looked in before
breakfast, dressed, shaved, and smiling, as if he had never had even a
bowing acquaintance with John Barleycorn. But Bill refused to take her
indignation seriously, and it died for lack of fuel.
A week or so later he became suddenly and unexpectedly active. He left
the house as soon as his breakfast was eaten, and he did not come home
to luncheon--a circumstance which irritated Hazel, since it was one of
those rare days when she herself lunched at home. Late in the
afternoon he telephoned briefly that he would dine downtown. And when
he did return, at nine or thereabouts in the evening, he clamped a
cigar between his teeth, and fell to work covering a sheet of paper
with interminable rows of figures.
Hazel had worried over the possibility of his having had another tilt
with the Scotch and sodas. He relieved her of that fear, and she
restrained her curiosity until boredom seized her. The silence and the
scratching of his pen began to grate on her nerves.
"What is all the clerical work about?" she inquired. "Reckoning your
assets and liabilities?"
Bill smiled and pushed aside the paper.
"I'm going to promote a mining company," he told her, quite casually.
"It has been put up to me as a business proposition--and I've got to
the stage where I have to do _something_, or I'll sure have the
Willies."
She overlooked the latter statement; it conveyed no special
significance at the time. But his first statement opened up
possibilities such as of late she had sincerely hoped would come to
pass, and she was all interest.
"Promote a mining company?" she repeated. "That sounds extremely
businesslike. How--when--where?"
"Now--here in Granville," he replied. "The how is largely Paul
Lorimer's idea. You see," he continued, warming up a bit to the
subject, "when I was prospecting that creek where we made the clean-up
last summer, I ran across a well-defined quartz lead. I packed out a
few samples in my pockets, and I happened to show them as well as one
or two of the nuggets to some of these fellows at the club a while
back. Lorimer took a piece of the quartz and had it assayed. It looms
up as something pretty big. So he and Brooks and a couple of other
fellows want me to go ahead and organize and locate a group of claims
in there. Twenty or thirty thousand dollars capital might make 'em all
rich. Of course, the placer end of it will be the big thing while the
lode is being developed. It should pay well from the start. Getting
the start is easy. As a matter of fact, you could sell any old wildcat
that has the magic of gold about it. Men seem to get the fever as soon
as they finger the real yellow stuff. These fellows I've talked to are
dead anxious to get in."
"But"--her knowledge of business methods suggested a difficulty--"you
can't sell stock in a business that has no real foundation--yet. Don't
you have to locate those claims first?"
"Wise old head; you have the idea, all right." He smiled. "But this
is not a stock-jobbing proposition. I wouldn't be in on it if it were,
believe me. It's to be a corporation, where not to exceed six men will
own all the stock that's issued. And so far as the claims are
concerned, I've got Whitey Lewis located in Fort George, and I've been
burning the wires and spending a bundle of real money getting him
grub-staked. He has got four men besides himself all ready to hit the
trail as soon as I give the word."
"You won't have to go?" she put in quickly.
"No," he murmured. "It isn't necessary, at this particular stage of
the game. But I wouldn't mind popping a whip over a good string of
dogs, just the same."
"B-r-r-r!" she shivered involuntarily. "Four hundred miles across that
deep snow, through that steady, flesh-searing cold. I don't envy them
the journey."
Bill relapsed into unsmiling silence, sprawling listless in his chair,
staring absently at the rug, as if he had lost all interest in the
matter.
"If you stay here and manage this end of it," she pursued lightly, "I
suppose you'll have an office downtown."
"I suppose so," he returned laconically.
She came over and stood by him, playfully rumpling his brown hair with
her fingers.
"I'm glad you've found something to loose that pent-up energy of yours
on, Billy-boy," she said. "You'll make a success of it, I know. I
don't see why you shouldn't make a success of any kind of business.
But I didn't think you'd ever tackle business. You have such peculiar
views about business and business practice."
"I despise the ordinary business ethic," he returned sharply. "It's a
get-something-for-nothing proposition all the way through; it is based
on exploiting the other fellow in one form or another. I refuse to
exploit my fellows along the accepted lines--or any lines. I don't
have to; there are too many other ways of making a living open to me.
I don't care to live fat and make some one else foot the bill. But I
can exploit the resources of nature. And that is my plan. If we make
money it won't be filched by a complex process from the other fellow's
pockets; it won't be wealth created by shearing lambs in the market, by
sweatshop labor, or adulterated food, or exorbitant rental of filthy
tenements. And I have no illusions about the men I'm dealing with. If
they undertake to make a get-rich-quick scheme of it I'll knock the
whole business in the head. I'm not overly anxious to get into it with
them. But it promises action of some sort--and I have to do something
till spring."
In the spring! That brief phrase set Hazel to sober thinking. With
April or May Bill would spread his wings for the North. There would be
no more staying him than the flight of the wild goose to the reedy
nesting grounds could be stayed. Well, a summer in the North would not
be so bad, she reflected. But she hated to think of the isolation. It
grieved her to contemplate exchanging her beautifully furnished
apartment for a log cabin in the woods. There would be a dreary
relapse into monotony after months of association with clever people,
the swift succession of brilliant little functions. It all delighted
her; she responded to her present surroundings as naturally as a grain
of wheat responds to the germinating influences of warmth and moisture.
It did not occur to her that saving Bill Wagstaff's advent into her
life she might have been denied all this. Indeed she felt a trifle
resentful that he should prefer the forested solitudes to the pleasant
social byways of Granville.
Still she had hopes. If he plunged into business associations with
Jimmie Brooks and Paul Lorimer and others of that group, there was no
telling what might happen. His interests might become permanently
identified with Granville. She loved her big, wide-shouldered man,
anyway. So she continued to playfully rumple his hair and kept her
thoughts to herself.
Bill informed her from time to time as to the progress of his venture.
Brooks and Lorimer put him in touch with two others who were ready to
chance money on the strength of Bill's statements. The company was
duly incorporated, with an authorized capital of one hundred thousand
dollars, five thousand dollars' worth of stock being taken out by each
on a cash basis--the remaining seventy-five thousand lying in the
company treasury, to be held or sold for development purposes as the
five saw fit when work began to show what the claims were capable of
producing.
Whitey Lewis set out. Bill stuck a map on their living-room wall and
pointed off each day's journey with a pin. Hazel sometimes studied the
map, and pitied them. So many miles daily in a dreary waste of snow;
nights when the frost thrust its keen-pointed lances into their tired
bodies; food cooked with numbed fingers; the dismal howling of wolves;
white frost and clinging icicles upon their beards as they trudged
across trackless areas; and over all that awesome hush which she had
learned to dread--breathless, brooding silence. Gold madness or trail
madness, or simply adventurous unrest? She could not say. She knew
only that a certain type of man found pleasure in such mad
undertakings, bucked hard trails and plunged headlong into vast
solitudes, and permitted no hardship nor danger to turn him back.
Bill was tinged with that madness for unbeaten trails. But surely when
a man mated, and had a home and all that makes home desirable, he
should forsake the old ways? Once when she found him studying the map,
traversing a route with his forefinger and muttering to himself, she
had a quick catch at her heart--as if hers were already poised to go.
And she could not follow him. Once she had thought to do that, and
gloried in the prospect. But his trail, his wilderness trail, and his
trail gait, were not for any woman to follow. It was too big a job for
any woman. And she could not let him go alone. He might never come
back.
Not so long since she and Kitty Brooks had been discussing a certain
couple who had separated. Vesta Lorimer sat by, listening.
"How could they help but fail in mutual flight?" the Lorimer girl had
demanded. "An eagle mated to a domestic fowl!"
And, watching Bill stare at the map, his body there but the soul of him
tramping the wild woods, she recalled Vesta Lorimer's characterization
of that other pair. Surely this man of hers was of the eagle brood.
But there, in her mind, the simile ended.
In early March came a telegram from Whitey Lewis saying that he had
staked the claims, both placer and lode; that he was bound out by the
Telegraph Trail to file at Hazleton. Bill showed her the
message--wired from Station Six.
"I wish I could have been in on it--that was some trip," he said--and
there was a trace of discontent in his tone. "I don't fancy somebody
else pawing my chestnuts out of the coals for me. It was sure a man's
job to cross the Klappan in the dead of winter."
The filing completed, there was ample work in the way of getting out
and whipsawing timber to keep the five men busy till spring--the five
who were on the ground. Lewis sent word that thirty feet of snow lay
in the gold-bearing branch. And that was the last they heard from him.
He was a performer, Bill said, not a correspondent.
So in Granville the affairs of the Free Gold Mining Company remained at
a standstill until the spring floods should peel off the winter blanket
of the North. Hazel was fully occupied, and Bill dwelt largely with
his books, or sketched and figured on operations at the claims. Their
domestic affairs moved with the smoothness of a perfectly balanced
machine. To the very uttermost Hazel enjoyed the well-appointed
orderliness of it all, the unruffled placidity of an existence where
the unexpected, the disagreeable, the uncouth, was wholly eliminated,
where all the strange shifts and struggles of her two years beyond the
Rockies were altogether absent and impossible. Bill's views he kept
largely to himself. And Hazel began to nurse the idea that he was
looking upon civilization with a kindlier eye.
Ultimately, spring overspread the eastern provinces. And when the
snows of winter successively gave way to muddy streets and then to
clean pavements in the city of Granville, a new gilt sign was lettered
across the windows of the brokerage office in which Paul Lorimer was
housed.
FREE GOLD MINING COMPANY
P. H. Lorimer, Pres. J. L. Brooks, Sec.-Treas.
William Wagstaff, Manager.
So it ran. Bill was commissioned in the army of business at last.