It was October. The bolls had opened beautifully. The cotton was
ready to pick. As Bob and Noah walked down the rows the stalks came up
to their shoulders. It was the finest crop of cotton either of them
had ever seen.
"As dad used to say," remarked Noah Ezekiel, "the fields are white for
the harvest, but where are the reapers?" There was no one in the
fields at work.
Bob shook his head gloomily. "I have no money for the pickers. I owe
you, Noah, for the last two months."
"Yes, I remember it," said the hill billy, plucking an extra large boll
of lint. "I've tried to forget it, but somehow those things sort of
stick in a fellow's mind."
In August the great war had broke in Europe.
Ships were rushing with war supplies, blockades declared, factories
shut down. The American stock exchanges had closed to save a panic.
Buying and selling almost ceased. Money scuttled to the cover of
safety vaults, and the price of cotton had dropped and dropped until
finally it ceased to sell at all.
"It is going to bankrupt almost every grower in the valley," remarked
Bob. "I'm certainly sorry for the Chandlers. They're up against it
hard."
"As the poet says," Noah Ezekiel drew down the corners of his mouth,
pulling a long face, "ain't life real?"
Bob laughed in spite of troubles. "Noah, I believe you'd joke at your
own funeral."
"Why shouldn't I?" said Noah. "You joked with your undertaker's
receipt." He grinned at the recollection of that event. "You sure
broke that yellow dog Jenkins from suckin' eggs--temporarily."
"But ain't he stuck with his leases though. If I had as much money as
he owes, I could fix these gamblers at the Red Owl so they wouldn't
have to work any for the rest of their natural lives."
"Noah," Bob turned to his faithful foreman, "I want you to stick until
we put this thing through. I'll see you don't lose a dollar."
"Don't you worry about me sticking," said Noah Ezekiel. "I never quit
a man as long as he owes me anything."
The loyalty of the hill billy touched Rogeen, but as is the way of men,
he covered it up with a brusque tone.
"You get the sacks ready. I'm going in to town and raise the money
somehow to pick this cotton. I'll pick it if I never get a dollar out
of it--can't bear to see a crop like that go to waste."
The cotton-gin people were in a desperate panic, but Bob went after
them hard:
"Now see here, that war in Europe is not going to end the world; and as
long as the world stands there will be a demand for cotton. This
flurry will pass, and there's sure to be a big jump in the market for
cotton seed. The war will increase the demand for oils of all kinds.
"That cotton has got to be picked, and you'll have to furnish the
money. When it is ginned you can certainly borrow five cents a pound
on it. That will pay for the water and the lease, the picking and the
ginning--and the duty, too.
"Now you get the money for me to pick my field and Chandler's field.
They owe only $600 on the crop; so you'll be even safer there than with
me. We'll leave the cotton with you as security. And then after you
have borrowed all you can on it, I'll give you my personal note for all
the balance I owe, and see you get every dollar of it, if I have to
work it out during the next three years at twenty dollars a week."
It was that promise that turned the scales. No man of discernment
could look at Rogeen and doubt either his pluck or his honesty.
Two days later forty Chinamen, more eager for jobs now than ever, were
picking cotton at the Chandler and Rogeen ranches--twenty at each place.
Tom Barton went up the outside stairway thumping each iron step
viciously. Six months of gloomy forebodings had terminated even more
disastrously than he had feared. He found Reedy Jenkins rumpled and
unshaven, laboriously figuring at his desk.
Reedy looked up with a sly-dog sort of smile. There were little rims
of red round his eyes, but it was plain he had something new to spring
on his creditor.
"I'm not figuring debts"--Jenkins reached in the drawer and got out a
cigar and lighted it--"but profits."
"Yes," said Barton, murderously, "that is what you are always figuring
on. Debts don't mean anything to you, because you aren't worth a damn.
But debts count with me. You owe me $40,000 on this bright idea of
yours, and your leases aren't worth a tadpole in Tahoe."
"Easy, easy!" Reedy waved his hand as though getting ready to make a
speech. "Perhaps I have temporarily lost my credit; but with a
requisite amount of cash, a man can always get it back--or do without
it.
"I admit this damn war has swamped me. I admit on the face of the
returns I am snowed under--bankrupt to the tune of over $200,000. But
nevertheless and notwithstanding I am going to get away with some coin."
"Well, I hope you don't get away with mine," growled Barton.
A laundry driver entered the door with a bill in his hand. Reedy grew
a little redder and waved at the man angrily.
"Don't bother me with that now; don't you see I'm busy?"
"So am I," said the driver, aggressively, "and this is the third call."
"Leave it," said Jenkins, angrily, "and I'll have my secretary send you
a check for it."
The driver threw it on Reedy's desk and left sullenly. Barton caught
the figures on the unpaid bill--seventy-eight cents.
"I admit," Barton spoke sarcastically as he started for the door, "that
your credit is gone. But if you don't dig up that forty thousand,
you'll be as sorry you ever borrowed it as I am that I lent it."
The last of November Bob went down to the Chandler ranch to give an
account of the cotton picking.
"You have 150 bales at the compress. I put up the compress receipts
for the debts," said Bob to Imogene. "There is $3,123 against your
cotton. I could not borrow another dollar on it."
"You have done so much for us already," the girl said, feelingly. "And
we'll get along some way. If cotton would only begin to sell, we would
have a little fortune."
"I have 180 bales," said Bob, "but I owe something over $4,000 on it.
I am going up to Calexico and get a job until spring." He hesitated a
moment, looking at the girl thoughtfully. The summer and hard work and
constant worry had left her thin and with a look of anxiety in her eyes.
"Hadn't you also better move to town?"
She laughed at that. "Why, dear sir, what do you suppose we should
live on in town? Out here we have no rent and can at least raise some
vegetables. No, we'll stick it out until we see whether this war is
merely a flurry or a deluge."
For a week Bob hunted a job in Calexico. His need for funds was acute.
He had managed to get enough on his cotton to pay all his labour bills
but had not kept a dollar for himself.
Tuesday evening he had gone up to his room at the hotel, a court room
with one window and broken plaster and a chipped water pitcher. There
was no job in sight. Everything was at a standstill, and the cotton
market looked absolutely hopeless. His note for the $4,000 fell due
January first. If he could not sell the cotton by that time, his
creditors would take it over; and besides, he was held for any amount
of the debt above what the cotton would bring at a forced sale.
He was bluer than he had been since he lost that first good job nine
years ago. He went to the battered old trunk, opened the lid, and
lifted the fiddle; stood with it in his hands a moment, put it against
his shoulder and raised the bow. He was thinking of her, the girl left
alone down there on the ranch--still fighting it out with the desert,
the Mexicans, and the trailing calamities of this World War. He
dropped the bow, he could not play. And just as he was returning the
fiddle to his trunk there was a knock followed by the opening of the
door. A chambermaid's head pushed in.
"There's a man down in the office wants to see you," announced the girl.
"Who is it?" asked Bob.
"Dunno--old fellow with eyebrows like a hair brush--and a long linen
duster."
"I'll be right down," said Bob.
Jim Crill was sitting in a corner of the hotel office when Rogeen came
down; and he motioned to Bob to take the chair beside him.
"Notice a cotton gin being built across the line?" the old gentleman
asked, crossing his legs and thrusting his hands into his trousers
pockets.
"Yes," Bob nodded. "I wondered if you had."
"Reckon I have," remarked Crill, dryly. "I'm puttin' up the money for
it."
"You are?" Bob was surprised. This upset his suspicions in regard to
that gin.
"Yes; don't you think it's a good investment?" The old gentleman's
keen blue eyes looked searchingly from under the shaggy brows at Rogeen.
"Lots of cotton raised over there," Bob answered, noncommittally. "And
the Mexicans really ought to have a gin on their side of the line."
The old gentleman cleared his throat as though about to say something
else; and then changed his mind and sat frowning in silence so long Bob
wondered why he had sent for him.
"Lots of cotton raisers 'll go broke this fall." Crill broke the
silence abruptly.
"Already are," replied Bob.
"Know what it means." The old gentleman jerked his head up and down.
"Hauled my last bale of five-cent cotton to the store many a time, and
begged 'em to let the rest of my bill run another year. That was
before I ran the store myself; and then struck oil on a patch of Texas
land. Haven't got as much money as folks think but too much to let lie
around idle. Think this valley is a good place to invest, don't you?"
Again the searching blue eyes peered at the young man.
"I certainly do," answered Bob with conviction. "The soil is
bottomless; it will grow anything and grow it all the year."
"If it gets water," added the old gentleman.
"Of course--but we had plenty of water this year. And," went on Bob,
"this war is not going to smash the cotton market forever. It's going
to smash most of us who have no money to hold on with. But next spring
or next summer or a year after, sooner or later, prices will begin to
climb. The war will decrease production more than it will consumption.
The war demands will send the price of wool up, and when wool goes up
it pulls cotton along with it. Cotton will go to twenty cents, maybe
more."
"That sounds like sense." The old gentleman nodded slowly. "And it is
the fellow that is a year ahead that gets rich on the rise; and the
fellow a year behind that gets busted on the drop in prices."
"There are going to be some fortunes made in raising cotton over
there," Bob nodded toward the Mexican line, "in the next four years
that will sound like an Arabian Nights' tale of farming.
"I figured it out this summer. That land is all for lease; it is
level, it is rich. They get water cheaper than we do on this side; and
I can get Chinese help, which is the best field labour in the world,
for sixty-five cents to a dollar a day. I was planning before this
smash came to plant six hundred acres of cotton next year."
"That's what I wanted to see you about," said Crill. "Want to lend
some money over there, and you are the fellow to do it. Want to lend
it to fellows you can trust on their honour without any mortgages.
Guess mortgages over there aren't much account anyway.
"Want to keep the cotton industry up here in the valley. May want to
start a cotton mill myself. Anyway," he added, belligerently, "a lot
of 'em are about to lose their cotton crops; and this is a good time to
stick 'em for a stiff rate of interest. Charge 'em 10 per cent--and
half the cotton seed. I'm no philanthropist."
Bob smiled discreetly at the fierceness. That was the usual rate for
loans on the Mexican side. And it was very reasonable considering the
risk.
"Want to hire you," said the old man, "to lend money on cotton--and
collect it. What you want a month?"
"I'll do it for $150 a month," answered Bob, "if it does not interfere
with my own cotton growing next spring."
"We can fix that," agreed the old man.
"I think," replied Bob, "the best loans and the greatest help would be
just now on the cotton already baled and at the compress. Most of the
growers have debts for leases and water and supplies and borrowed money
against their cotton, and cannot sell it at any price. Unless they do
sell or can borrow on it by January first, these debts will take the
cotton. If you would lend them six cents a pound on their compress
receipts that would put most of them in the clear, and enable them to
hold on a few months for a possible rise in price."
"That's your business." The old gentleman got up briskly. "I'll put
$25,000 to your credit in the morning at the International Bank. It's
your job to lend it. When it's gone, let me know."
"Oh, by the way," Bob's heart had been beating excitedly through all
this arrangement, but he had hesitated to ask what was on his mind.
"Do you mind if--if I lend myself five cents a pound on 180 bales?"
The old man turned and glared at him fiercely.
"Do you reckon I'd trust you to lend to others if I didn't trust you
myself? Make the loans, then explain the paper afterward."
Next morning Bob bought a second-hand automobile for two hundred and
fifty dollars and gave his note for it. It was not much of an
automobile, but it was of the sort that always comes home.
Rogeen headed straight south, and in less than an hour stopped at the
Chandler ranch.
Imogene was under the shade of the arrow-weed roof, reading a magazine.
Rogeen felt a quick thrill as he saw her flush slightly as she came out
to meet him.
"What means the gasolene chariot?" she asked. "Prosperity or mere
recklessness?"
"Merely hopefulness," he answered. "I brought a paper for you. Sign
on the dotted line." He handed her a promissory note, due in six
months, for $4,500.
"What is this?" She had been living so long on a few dollars at a time
that the figures sounded startling.
"I've got a loan on your cotton," replied Bob with huge satisfaction.
"And you can have it as soon as you and your father have signed the
note."
"Good heavens!" The blood had left her face. "You are not joking, are
you? Why, man alive, that means that we live! It will give us $1,400
above the debts."
Bob felt a choking in his throat. The pluckiness of the girl! And
that he could bring her relief! "Yes, and I'm going to take you back
to town, where you can pay off the debts and get your money."
The exuberant gayety that broke over the girl's spirits as they
returned to town moved Bob deeply. What a long, hard pull she and her
father had had; no wonder the unexpected relief sent her spirits on the
rebound.
"Thank the Lord," he said, fervently, to himself, "for that sharp old
man with bushy eyebrows!"
As they drove up to the International Bank where Bob had asked the
compress company to send all the bills against the Chandler cotton,
another machine was just driving away and a woman was entering the bank.
"By the great horn spoon," Bob exclaimed aloud, "that is Mrs. Barnett."
"Who is Mrs. Barnett?" Imogene Chandler asked archly. "Some special
friend of yours?"
"Hardly," Bob replied, remembering that Miss Chandler knew neither Jim
Crill nor his niece.
"And the man who was driving away," said Imogene, "was Reedy Jenkins."
"It was?" Bob turned quickly. "Are you sure? I was watching the woman
and did not notice the machine."
[Illustration: A mutual discovery--they both cared.]
As they entered the bank Mrs. Barnett, dressed in a very girlish
travelling suit, was standing by the check counter as though waiting.
At sight of Bob she nodded and smiled reservedly.
"Oh, Mr. Rogeen," she arched her brows and called to him as he started
to the cashier's window with Imogene Chandler.
Bob excused himself and approached her, a little uneasy and decidedly
annoyed. Her mouth was simpering, but her eyes had that sharp,
predatory look he had seen before.
"Mr. Rogeen," she began in a cool, ladylike voice, "my uncle told me of
the arrangement he had made with you and asked me to O. K. all the
loans before you make them."
"Is that so?" Bob felt a mingling of wrath and despair. "He did not
say anything to me about it."
"N-o?"--questioningly--"we talked it over last night, and he felt sure
this would be the better plan."
Bob hesitated for a moment. Imogene had gone to the other note
counter, and was trying idly not to be aware of the conversation. It
would be utterly too cruel to disappoint her now. It went against the
grain, but Rogeen swallowed his resentment and distaste.
"All right," he nodded brightly. "I've got one loan already for you."
He drew the papers from his pocket. "It is six cents on 150 bales of
cotton now in the yards. Here are the compress receipts."
"Whom is this for?" Her eyes looked at him challengingly; her lips
shaped the words accusingly.
"To Miss Chandler and her father." Bob felt himself idiotically
blushing.
Mrs. Barnett's face took on the frozen look of a thousand generations
of damning disapprobation.
"No! Not one cent to that woman. Uncle and I don't care to encourage
that sort."
For a moment Bob stood looking straight into the frigid face of Mrs.
Barnett. It was the first time in his life he would have willingly
sacrificed his personal pride for money. He would have done almost
anything to get that money for Imogene Chandler. But it was useless to
try to persuade the widow that she was wrong. Back of her own
narrowness was Reedy Jenkins. This was Reedy's move; he was using the
widow's vanity and personal greed for his own ends; and his ends were
the destruction of Rogeen and the capitulation of Miss Chandler.
Mrs. Barnett's eyes met his defiantly, but her mouth quivered a little
nervously. A doubt flashed through his mind. Was she authorized to do
this? Surely she would not dare take such authority without her
uncle's consent. He might telephone, anyway, then a more direct
resolution followed swiftly. He turned away from Mrs. Barnett and went
to the cashier's window.
"Did Jim Crill deposit $25,000 here subject to my check?" he asked.
"He did," replied the cashier.
"Are there any strings to it?"
"None," responded the cashier promptly.
Without so much as glancing toward the widow, who had watched this move
with a venomous suspicion, Bob went to Miss Chandler by the desk and
took the papers from his pocket, and laid them before her.
"Indorse the compress receipts over to Mr. Crill."
Then he wrote two checks--one to the bank for $3,123 to pay off all the
claims against the Chandler cotton and one to Imogene for $1,377.
"You don't know, Mr. Rogeen," she started to say in a low, tense voice
as she took the check, "how much----"
"I don't need to," he smilingly interrupted her gratitude, "for it
isn't my money. I'll see you at lunch; and then take you back home in
my car." He lifted his hat and turned back to the counter where Mrs.
Barnett stood loftily, disdainfully, yet furiously angry.
"Well," said Bob, casually, "I've made one loan, anyway."
"It will be your last." Mrs. Barnett clutched her hands vindictively.
"You'll be discharged as quick as I get to Uncle Jim."
Bob really expected he would, but not for three jobs would he have
recalled that loan and the light of relief in Imogene Chandler's eyes.