William Allen (Wild Bill) McGill sat in a lawyer’s office, gazing
moodily at the stream of traffic on Market Street, San Francisco. The
cognomen had been conferred upon him by some of his classmates at
Stanford for the same reason that they would call a fat boy “Splinter.”
William Allen McGill was most certainly not wild.
He was fairly well built, blond, with wide, inquiring blue eyes and a
delicate complexion. His mouth was a trifle stubborn, his chin square.
The gum-chewing stenographer over by the other window decided that
William Allen was a good looking boy, even if he did act absent minded
by not paying any attention to her. She knew him to be the son of old
Dr. Andrew McGill, who had died recently. The papers had mentioned the
fact that the good doctor had died, leaving little or nothing. He had
been one of the old time doctors.
A man came from the private office, nodded to the stenographer, and went
out. A buzzer whirred softly.
“Mr. Mahler will see you, Mr. McGill,” said the girl.
“Eh?” The boy turned from the window. “Oh, yes; thank you.”
As he entered the room a pleasant-faced, oldish man smiled at him from
across the polished top of a desk.
“Good morning, William,” he said.
“How do you do?” the boy said precisely. “Nice morning, Mr. Mahler.”
“As a matter of fact, it is both foggy and raining.”
“Yes, I believe it is. But no matter. Thank you.”
He sat down on the edge of a chair, rubbing his hands together
nervously.
“You handled some of my—er—father’s affairs, Mr. Mahler.”
“Yes, I did, William. Quite a lot of them, as far as they went. As you
know, from the amount of your legacy, the good man had little left.”
William Allen nodded violently. His legacy had been a bare thousand
dollars—one-fiftieth of what the old doctor was believed to have left.
Mortgages covered everything. William’s mother had died ten years ago,
when William was little more than ten years of age. Since then he had
spent the most of the time in boarding schools, two years in Stanford.
“I didn’t mean about his property,” faltered William. “This, it seems,
was a more personal affair.”
“Yes?” The lawyer’s brows lifted slightly. “As a matter of fact, Dr.
McGill did not confide any personal matters to me. Strictly business,
and I was much surprised at the limited—”
“I’m sorry,” said William, interrupting, “this is something— You see, my
father kept a small safe at home, and this morning I accidentally
discovered the key. There were a few old papers, some mining stock,
which I believe is defunct, and a few old letters. Mr. Mahler, did it
ever occur to you that Dr. McGill was not my father?”
The lawyer stared for a moment at William, removed his glasses and
polished them carefully.
“Well, I—there has never been anything to cause me to suspect such a
thing.”
“Read this, please.”
William handed him two sheets of old writing paper, faded badly, almost
ready to fall apart at the creases; evidently paper from a cheap tablet.
The lawyer adjusted his glasses and read aloud:
“Dear Andy:
I just got your letter yesterday and I’m glad you and your wife
have decided to keep the kid. As I told you up here, I called him
Bill. I’ll be damned if I know what the rest of his name is. Why
not give him your name, Andy? I’ll send you money to use for him
because I kinda feel that I ought to do this much. I’d keep him
myself, but I’ve found the woman I want to marry. She’s living
at a little place south of here, and I don’t want to answer
questions about the kid. You understand what I mean. Your wife
seemed to kinda like the kid, and she said she always wanted one.
Maybe it all works out right. Anyway, I thank you both.
Give her my regards and thanks.
Yours truly,
—ED
“Sounds mighty queer,” muttered the lawyer. He picked up the other
paper. It was evidently only half of a letter. He read:
“Dear Andy:
Haven’t heard from you for a long time and I wondered how Bill
is getting along. Must be quite a kid by this time. I am doing
well here. This place is kinda new, but I’m going to stick and
make some money for myself. I guess it don’t pay to knock
around. I hope you and your wife are both well and that you
are selling lots of pills these days. My wife is a mighty good
woman. I guess I needed her to make me settle down and quit
being a wild man. I never did tell her about the kid, because
it would make me explain a lot of things that I want to forget—”
And there the page ended.
“No postmark or anything,” said the lawyer. “Not even a date.”
“Not a thing,” said William gloomily. “Here is the old mining stock.”
The lawyer looked it over. The date of issue was nearly twenty years
ago, capital stock of the Willow Valley Copper Company.
“And here is a letter from a man, asking about it,” said William. “It
would seem that Dr. McGill was one of the promoters.”
The lawyer read the letter, nodding slowly.
“Yes,” he agreed, “it would seem so, although the certificates were not
signed by him. I just wonder if you could be the Bill referred to.”
“Why not? I am the only child.”
“Yes, that is true. William, I am sorry, but you have made out an
airtight case against yourself.”
“Then who am I?”
“Who knows? Who was Ed? Is he alive—and where? He admits that he does
not know your name. He says he named you Bill. According to the letter,
it would do you no good to find the man named Ed. William, if you will
take my well meant advice, you will continue to be William Allen
McGill.”
But William shook his head, a stubborn expression on his mouth.
“The name of Bill was given to me by a man I do not know; a man who was
ashamed to tell, or afraid to tell, where he got me. The name of Allen
is the family name of the only mother I ever knew, and the name of
McGill is something I am not entitled to use.”
“Well, what are you going to do about it?”
“I don’t know. I can’t go back to college. Lack of funds would prevent
that, even if I wanted to go back. I have less than a thousand dollars
to my name. To my name!”
“Names don’t mean so much, William.”
“Perhaps names don’t, but an identity does. I want to know who I am. If
the man who gave me to Dr. McGill was afraid and ashamed to tell—what
kind of a creature am I?”
“Oh, look at it in a calm way. You are you. After all, what does it
matter? You have no past to be ashamed of. Nearly twenty-one, with the
world ahead of you. Keep on being William McGill. It’s a good old name.
Dr. McGill was a good father to you. Stick to his name and forget the
rest.”
“Would you? Wouldn’t you do everything to find out who you were?”
“I suppose I would. But suppose the discovery hurts more than the
uncertainty?”
William shut his lips tightly as he got to his feet.
“That won’t matter; I’ll know who I am. Goodby, Mr. Mahler.”
“Are you going away so soon?”
“I think so.”
They shook hands gravely and William walked back to the door, where he
paused.
“I’ll let you know where I am.”
“Do that, William—and the best of luck.”
“Thank you.”
William ignored the smile of the pretty stenographer and went down to
the misty street. He stood for a while in the protected doorway and
looked at the old mining stock certificates. He tucked them back into
his pocket, turned up the collar of his coat.
“I guess I better go to the library and find out just where Willow
Valley is located,” he told himself. “Twenty years late is rather a poor
time to pick up a trail, but I’ve got to have a starting point.”