A CAB from the London terminus speedily deposited Lord Stranleigh at
his favorite club in Pall Mall. Two acquaintances coming down the
steps nodded to him casually, so casually that the salutation, taken in
conjunction with the lack of all interest displayed in the smoking room
when he entered, caused him to realize that he had never been missed,
and this indifference keeps a man from becoming too conceited when he
has victoriously pitted his intelligence against bears or brigands in
far-away corners of the earth, and lives to tell the tale, or keep quiet
about it, as the case may be. As he was attired in the ordinary business
suit that had done two days’ hard duty at Southampton, he could not
commit the solecism of entering the dining room. Indeed, gleaming,
snowy shirt fronts were so prevalent in the smoking room itself that he
experienced the unaccustomed, but rather enjoyable feeling of being a
wild and woolly pioneer, who had strayed by mistake into a stronghold
of fashionable civilization. The dining room being forbidden ground,
Stranleigh contented himself with a couple of sandwiches and a tankard
of German beer. As he partook of this frugal fare, a broad shirt front
bore down upon him that reminded him of the sail of a racing yacht.
“Hello, Stranleigh,” said Sir William Grainger, the owner of the shirt
front. “Remember me telling you last week that Flying Scud was sure of a
place in the Maple-Durham stakes?”
“I don’t remember having received that information from you,” replied
Stranleigh. “Did Flying Scud pull it off, then?”
“Pull it off? Why, the race isn’t run till tomorrow.”
“Oh, I beg pardon, I had forgotten the date.”
“Well, Stranleigh, I’ve got it straight that Flying Scud will romp in a
winner. It’s a sure thing. Don’t you give it away, but act on the hint,
and you won’t be sorry. Odds are twenty-five to one at the present
moment, and for every blooming quid you put up, you’ll get a pony.”
“That’s very attractive, Billy.”
“Attractive? Why, it’s simply found money.”
“Ah, well, such chances are not for me, Billy. I’ve had to pawn my
evening togs in order to get a sandwich and a glass of beer. I’m a
hornyhanded son of toil trying to pick up an honest living. Why don’t you
follow my example, Billy, and do something useful? This deplorable habit
of betting on the races will lead you into financial straits by and by,
and what is worse, the gambling fever may become chronic if you don’t
check it in time.”
Sir William Grainger laughed joyously at this. He was a young man who
had already run through a large patrimony left him by his father, and
since that time had developed a genius for borrowing which would have
done credit to Harriman, the railway king.
“Come, Stranleigh, don’t preach, or at least, if you do preach, don’t
hedge. You know what I want. Lend me a pony till next Monday, there’s
a good fellow. That sum will bring me in six hundred and twenty-five
pounds before to-morrow night. I’ve figured it all out on a sheet
of club paper, but I’m stony broke, so fork over the twenty-five,
Stranleigh.”
Lord Stranleigh, without demur, took from his pocketbook some Bank of
England notes of ten pounds each, selected three of them, and passed
them on to Sir William, who thus getting five pounds more than he had
asked for, lovingly fingered the tenacious, crisp pieces of paper, then
put forward a bluff of getting one of them changed, that he might return
the extra money.
“Oh, don’t trouble about that,” said Stranleigh, somewhat wearily. He
had had a tiring day at Southampton, and beer and sandwiches were not a
very inspiring meal at the end of it. “Don’t trouble about that. If you
take another sheet of club paper, you may be able to calculate how much
more the extra five pounds will bring you in to-morrow night.”
“By Jove, that’s true,” said Sir William, much relieved, and then the
ease with which he had made the haul seemed to stir up his covetousness
and still further submerge all self-respect.
“Talking of the extra amount I will gain reminds me, Stranleigh, that if
you will give me one more ten-pound note, the whole loot will be an
even thousand at twenty-five to one, you know. I’ll pay it all back on
Monday, but it seems a pity to miss such a chance, doesn’t it?”
“How wonderfully you can estimate the odds, Billy. If forty pounds will
bring you a thousand, then, as you say, it would be a pity to miss such
an opportunity. Well, here you are,” and he passed the fourth ten-pound
note into the other’s custody.
Still Sir William lingered. Perhaps it would have been more merciful if
his lordship had demurred rather strenuously against accommodating him
with the so-called loan. The sight of the other’s notes now returning to
his pocket filled him with envy. He felt some remnant of reluctance in
attempting to increase his acquisition, so he put it in another form:
“I say, Stranleigh, if you’d like me to lay a bit on for you, so far as
Flying Scud is concerned, I’ll do it with pleasure.”
“Thanks, old man, but I shan’t trouble you. I intend to put on some
money, but it will be against Flying Scud.”
“What! have you heard anything?” cried Sir William in alarm, but the
other interrupted----
“I know nothing about the horse at all, but I know a good deal about
your luck, and I’ll have that forty pounds back on Monday, without
troubling you, except by betting against you.” Sir William laughed a
little, shrugged his shoulders, and walked away with the loot.
“Yes,” murmured Stranleigh to himself, “this is dear old London again,
sure enough. The borrowing of money has begun.”
In spite of being touched for varying amounts, Lord Stranleigh enjoyed
to the full his return to the Metropolis, and for many days strolled
down Piccadilly with the easy grace of a man about town, the envy of
less fortunate people who knew him. This period of indolence was put an
end to by the receipt of a telegram from Mackeller. That capable young
man had sent his message from the northwest corner of Brittany,
having ordered the _Rajah_ to be run into the roadstead of Brest.
The communication informed Stranleigh that Mackeller had hoisted up a
portion of the cargo, and placed it aboard a lugger, which was to sail
direct for Portreath. This transhipment of part of the cargo had brought
Plimsoll’s mark on the side of the _Rajah_ into view once more, and the
steamer might now enter the harbor of Plymouth without danger of being
haled before the authorities, charged with overloading. He expected to
reach Plymouth next day.
Stranleigh was lunching at home that day because in the morning he had
been favored with a telephone call, and on putting the receiver to his
ear, had distinguished the still, small voice of Conrad Schwartzbrod,
who appeared to be trying to say something with reference to the
_Rajah_. Stranleigh was afflicted with a certain dislike of the
telephone, and often manifested an impatience with its working which he
did not usually show when confronted with the greater evils of life, so
after telling the good Mr. Schwartzbrod to stand farther away from the
transmitter, to come closer, to speak louder, he at last admitted he
could not understand what was being said, and invited the financier to
call upon him at his house that afternoon at half past two, if what he
had to say was important enough to justify a journey from the city to
the West End.
At the luncheon table Mackeller’s long telegram was handed to him, and,
after he had read it, Stranleigh smiled as he thought how nearly its
arrival had coincided with Schwartzbrod’s visit, and he wondered how
much the latter would give for its perusal if he knew of its existence.
He surmised that the Stock Exchange magnate was becoming a little
anxious because of the nonarrival of the _Rajah_ at Lisbon, where,
doubtless, his emissaries awaited her. In spite of his pretense of
misapprehension, he had heard quite distinctly at the telephone receiver
that Schwartz-brod had just learned he was the owner of the _Rajah_, and
that he wished to renew his charter of that slow-going, deliberate steam
vessel, but he could not deny himself the pleasure of crossquestioning
so crafty an opponent face to face. He had been expecting an application
from Conrad Schwartzbrod for some days, and now it had arrived almost
too late, for he directed Ponderby to secure him a berth on the Plymouth
express for that night.
The young nobleman did not receive the elderly capitalist in his
business office downstairs, as perhaps would have been the more
suitable, but greeted him instead in the ample and luxurious
drawing-room on the first floor, where Stranleigh, enjoying the liberty
of a bachelor, was smoking an after-luncheon cigar, and he began the
interview by offering a similar one to his visitor, which was declined.
Mr. Schwartzbrod, it seemed, never smoked.
The furtive old man was palpably nervous and ill at ease. He sat on the
extreme edge of an elegant chair, and appeared not to know exactly what
to do with his hands. The news which had reached him from Sparling &
Bilge in Southampton, that Lord Stranleigh was the new owner of the
_Rajah_, had disquieted Schwartzbrod, and his manner showed this to his
indolent host, who lounged back in an easy-chair, calmly viewing the
newcomer with an expression of countenance that was almost cherublike in
its innocence.
[Illustration: 0247]
“Sorry you don’t smoke,” drawled the younger man. “You miss a great deal
of pleasure in life by your abstention.”
“It is a habit I never acquired, my lord, and so perhaps I do not feel
the lack of it so much as one accustomed to tobacco might suppose. I
lead a very busy life, and, indeed, a somewhat anxious one, since
times are so bad in the city, therefore I have little opportunity of
cultivating what I might call--I hope with no offense--the smaller
vices.”
“Ah, there speaks a large trader. You go in for the big things in life,
whether in finance or in vice.”
“I hope I may say without vanity, my lord, that I have always avoided
vice, large or small.”
“Lucky man; I wish I could make the same confession. So times are bad in
the city, are they?”
“Yes, they are.”
“Then why don’t you chuck the city, and come and live in the West End
where life is easy?”
“A rich man may live where he pleases, my lord, but I have been a hard
worker all my life.”
“Poor, but honest, eh? Still, when all’s said and done, Mr.
Schwartzbrod, I really believe that you hard workers enjoy your money
better when you get it than we leisurely people who have never known
the lack of it. I believe in honesty myself, and if I were not of so
indolent a nature, I think I might perhaps have become an honest man.
But a busy laborer like yourself, Mr. Schwartzbrod, has not come to the
West End to hear me talk platitudes about honesty. In America the man
goes West who intends to work hard. In London a man comes west when he
has made money.
“‘You miss a great deal of pleasure in life.’”
“He has his pile in the city, and expects to cease work. You have come west
temporarily to see me about some matter which the telephone delighted in
mixing up with buzzings and rattlings and intermittent chattering that
made your theme difficult to comprehend. Perhaps you will be good enough
to let me know in what way I may serve you.”
“At the time when I expected to operate the gold field, which you know
of, my lord, I chartered a steamer, named the _Rajah_, at Southampton.”
“Oh, the _Rajah!_” interrupted his lordship, sitting up, a gleam of
intelligent comprehension animating his face. “The _Rajah_ was what you
were trying to say? I thought you were speaking of a Jolly Roger. Roger
was the word that came over to me, and ‘Jolly Roger’ means the flag of
a pirate ship, or something pertaining to piracy, so I, recognizing your
voice, thinks to myself: ‘What, in the name of Moses and the Prophets,
can a respectable city personage mean by speaking of the Jolly Roger,
as if he were a captain of buccaneers.’ Oh, yes, the _Rajah!_ _Now_ I
understand. Proceed, Mr. Schwartzbrod.”
The personage seemed to turn a trifle more sallow than usual as the
other went on enthusiastically talking of pirate ships and buccaneers,
but he surmised that the young nobleman meant nothing in particular,
as he sank back once more in his easy-chair, and again half closed his
eyes, blowing the smoke of his cigar airily aloft. Presently, moistening
his lips, Conrad Schwartzbrod found voice, convinced that the other’s
allusion to marine pillage was a mere coincidence, and not a covert
reference to Frowningshield and his merry men, or to the mission of the
_Rajah_ herself.
“I was about to say, my lord, that I had chartered the _Rajah_ from
a firm of shipping people in Southampton, intending to use her in the
development of the mineral property in West Africa. That property having
passed from the hands of myself and my associates into yours, my lord, I
determined to employ the _Rajah_ in the South American cattle trade, as we
own an extensive tract of territory in the Argentine, the interests of
which we are endeavoring to forward with the ultimate object of floating
a company.”
Again the prospective company promoter moistened his lips when they had
safely delivered this interesting piece of fiction.
“So the _Rajah_ has gone to the Argentine Republic, has she?” said
Stranleigh.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Filled with dynamite and mining machinery, eh? Surely a remarkable
cargo for a herdsman to transport, Mr. Schwartzbrod?”
“Well, you see, my lord, the dynamite and machinery was on our hands,
and as there are many mines in South America, we thought we could sell
the cargo there to better advantage than in Southampton.”
“Of course I don’t in the least doubt, Mr. Schwartzbrod, that you own
large ranches in South America, but I strongly suspect----”
He paused, and opened his eyes to half width, looking quizzically at his
_vis-à-vis_.
“You strongly suspect what, my lord?” muttered Schwartzbrod.
“I suspect that you own a mine in South America that you are keeping
very quiet about.”
“Well, my lord,” confessed Schwartzbrod, with apparent diffidence, “it
is rarely wise to speak of these things prematurely.”
“That is quite true, and I have really no wish to pry into your secrets,
but to tell the truth, I felt a little sore about your action with
regard to the _Rajah_.”
“My action? What action?”
“You must admit, Mr. Schwartzbrod, that when I acquired those so-called
gold fields, I became possessor of everything the company owned, or at
least I thought I did. Now, in the company was vested the charter of the
_Rajah_, and it was the company’s money which bought all the materials
with which you have sailed away to South America. It therefore seemed to
me--I don’t wish to put it harshly--that you had, practically, made off
with a portion of my property.”
“You astonish me, my lord. It never occurred to me that such a view
could be held by any one, especially one like yourself, so well
acquainted with facts.”
Stranleigh shrugged his shoulders.
“Acquainted with the facts? Oh, I don’t know that I’m so very well
versed in them. I’m not a business man, Mr. Schwartzbrod, and although
I engage business men to look after my interests, it seems to me that
sometimes they are not as sharp as they might be. I thought, after the
acquisition of the company’s property, that the charter of the _Rajah_
and the contents of her hold belonged to me, just as much as the
company’s money in the bank did, or as its gold in West Africa.”
“I assure you, my lord, you are mistaken. The _Rajah_ and her charter
were not mentioned in the documents of agreement between you and me,
while the money in the bank was. But aside from all that, my lord,
you gave me a document covering all that had been done previous to its
signing, and the _Rajah_ had sailed from South America several days
before that instrument was completed. Everything was done legally, and
under the advice of competent solicitors--yours and mine.”
“Do not mistake me, Mr. Schwartzbrod; I am not complaining at all, nor
even doubting the legality of the documents to which you refer. I am
merely saying that I thought the _Rajah_ and her cargo was to be turned
over to me. There, doubtless, I was mistaken. It seems to me after all,
Mr. Schwartzbrod, that there is a higher criterion of action than mere
legality. You, probably, would be the first to admit that there is
such a thing as moral right which may not happen to coincide with legal
right.”
“Assuredly, assuredly, my lord. I should be very sorry indeed to
infringe upon any moral law, but, unfortunately, in this defective
world, my lord, experience has shown that it is always well to set down
in plain black and white exactly what a man means when a transfer
is made, otherwise your remembrance of what was intended may differ
entirely from mine, and yet each of us may be scrupulously honest in our
contention.”
“Yes, you have me there, Mr. Schwartzbrod. I see the force of your
reasoning, and a man has only himself to blame if he neglects those
necessary precautions which you have mentioned, so we will say nothing
more about that phase of the matter, but you will easily understand that
having thought myself entitled to the use of the Rajah, I may not feel
myself inclined to renew your charter now.”
“Ah, there again, my lord, it is all set down in black and white. The
charter distinctly states that I am to have the option of renewal for a
further three months when the first three months has expired.”
“You corner me at every point of the game, Mr. Schwartzbrod. I take
it, then, that my purchase of the _Rajah_ does not invalidate the
arrangement made with you by her former owners?”
“Certainly not, my lord. If you buy a property, you take over all its
liabilities.”
“That seems just and reasonable. So your application for renewal is a
mere formality, against which any objection of mine would be futile?”
“Did not Sparling & Bilge explain to you, my lord, that the steamer was
under charter?”
“I never saw those estimable gentlemen, Mr. Schwartzbrod. The purchase
was made by an agent of mine, and I have no doubt Sparling & Bilge made
him acquainted with all the liabilities I was acquiring. If you insist
on exercising your option, Mr. Schwartzbrod, I suppose I must either
postpone the development of my gold-bearing property, or charter another
steamer?”
“I should be sorry to put you to the trouble and expense of chartering
another boat when the _Rajah_ is so well suited to your purpose, my
lord. It is possible that, even before the first charter is completed,
the _Rajah_ may have returned to Southampton, and our experiments in the
cattle trade may end with the first voyage. In that case I shall be very
pleased to relinquish my claim upon your steamer.”
“That is very good of you, Mr. Schwartzbrod. By the way, where is the
_Rajah_ now?”
“She is probably in some port along the Argentine coast, south of Buenos
Ayres.”
“Really? Then perhaps you can tell me where Mackeller is?”
“Mackeller? You mean the mining engineer, son of the stockbroker?”
“Yes, I thought he was in my employment, and sent him down to attend the
loading of the _Rajah_, but he has disappeared. Did you engage him?”
“No, I know nothing of him.”
“I thought perhaps he had sailed with the _Rajah_.”
“Not to my knowledge. Doesn’t his father know where he is?”
“His father appears to know no more than I do. Just as much, or just as
little, whichever way you like to put it.”
“He’s no employee of mine, my lord.”
“I think he should have given me notice if he intended to quit my
service. Probably he has gone hunting a gold mine for himself.”
“I think there are many mining engineers more valuable than young
Mackeller, my lord. He always seemed to me a stubborn, unmannerly
person.”
“Yes, he lacked the polish which the city gives to a man. I suppose his
life in the various wildernesses he has visited has not been conducive
to the acquirement of the art of politeness. Still, as you say, there
is no lack of mining engineers in London, and doubtless, when the time
comes that I need one, I shall find a suitable man for the vacancy.”
“I shall be very glad to help you in the selection, my lord, if you care
to consult me.”
“Thanks, I’ll remember that. I take it with regard to this charter that
I have to sign something, haven’t I, although I suppose I shouldn’t
sign until my solicitors are consulted; still, I feel quite safe in your
hands, Mr. Schwartzbrod, and if you will send me the document, and mark
with a lead pencil where my signature is to go, I shall attend to it.”
“I have brought the papers with me, my lord,” said the financier
eagerly, extracting them from his pocket.
“Could you also oblige me with a fountain pen? Ah, thanks. You go about
fully equipped for business, Mr. Schwartzbrod. That’s what it is to be a
methodical man.”
His lordship cleared a little space on the table, and wrote his name at
the bottom of two documents, which, however, he took the precaution to
read with some care before attaching his autograph to them, in spite
of his disclaimer that he understood nothing about these things. He
complained languidly of the obscure nature of the papers, and said
it was no wonder lawyers were so much needed to elucidate them.
Schwartzbrod put the papers in his pocket with a satisfaction he could
scarcely conceal, then, standing up, he buttoned his coat, ever so much
more alert than the weary young man, half his age, who stood up from his
writing as if the exertion had almost exhausted him. He, however, made
a quiet, casual remark in parting that suddenly electrified the room and
made his guest shiver and turn pale.
“When did you say you expected the _Rajah_ from Lisbon, Mr.
Schwartzbrod?”
For a few moments there was intense stillness. Stranleigh was lighting
another cigar, and did not look up at the terror-stricken man, whose
bulging eyes were filled with fear.
“Lisbon--Lisbon?” he gasped, trying to secure control of his features.
“I--I never mentioned Lisbon.”
“Oh, yes, you did. You said she was at some point south of Lisbon,
didn’t you?”
“I said Buenos Ayres.”
Stranleigh made a gesture of impatience as if he were annoyed with
himself.
“Why, of course you said Buenos Ayres. How stupid of me. I am always
mixing these foreign places up. I suppose it is because the Argentine
Republic is one of those former Spanish possessions, and Lisbon being in
Spain, I confused the two.”
“Lisbon is in Portugal, my lord; the capital of Portugal.”
“You are right. It was Madrid I was thinking of Madrid is in Spain,
isn’t it?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“And it isn’t a port, either?”
“No, my lord.”
“And is Lisbon on the sea?”
“On the river Tagus, my lord.”
“I am an ignoramus, that’s what I am. I ought really to go to school
again. I have forgotten everything I learned there. Well, good
afternoon, Mr. Schwartzbrod. Anything else I can do for you, you know,
don’t hesitate to call on me. We financiers must stand by one another,
while times are so bad in the city.”
The young man stood at the head of the stairs, a cigar between his
lips, and his hands deep in his trousers pockets, seeing which Mr.
Schwartzbrod, who had tentatively made a motion to shake hands in
farewell, thought better of it, and went down the stairs, at the bottom
of which the silent Ponderby waited to open the door for him. When he
reached the floor below Schwartzbrod cast one look over his shoulder
up the stairs. The young man still stood on the landing, gazing
contemplatively down upon his parting guest. He nodded pleasantly, and
“Ta-ta,” he said, but the expression on Schwartzbrod’s face could
not have shown greater perturbation if Satan himself had occupied
Stranleigh’s place.
“A very uncomfortable companion is an uneasy conscience, even in the
city,” said Stran-leigh to himself, as he turned away.
Schwartzbrod hailed a cab, and drove to his office in the city; anxious
about the _Rajah_; glad he had secured the renewal of the charter
without protest or investigation; uneasy regarding Stranleigh’s
apparently purposeless remarks about pirates and Lisbon. Arriving at his
office, he rang for his confidential clerk.
“Any word from Lisbon?” he demanded.
“Yes, sir. The same code word. No sign of the _Rajah_ there, sir.”
“How long is it since you sent warning to all our agents along the
Atlantic coast and the Mediterranean to look out for her?”
“Just a week to-day, sir, and a wire came in shortly after you left,
from our man at Brest. I’d have telephoned you, sir, if I had known
where you had gone.”
“Give it to me, give it to me, give it to me,” repeated Schwartzbrod
impatiently. He clutched it in his trembling hands, and read:
“Steamer flying English flag, named _Rajah_ Wilkie captain, in roadstead
to-day. Unloading ore into lugger.”
The moral Mr. Schwartzbrod now gave way to a paroxysm of bitter language
that was dreadful to hear, but his stolid clerk seemed used to it, and
bent his head before the storm. During a lull for lack of breath he
ventured one remark:
“It can’t be our ship, sir. Our man is Captain Simmons.”
“What has that to do with it, you fool?” roared Schwartzbrod. “That
old scoundrel Simmons can easily change his name. He’s sold me out, the
sanctimonious hound. Very likely he and Frowningshield are both in the
plot against me. Simmons is a thief, for all his canting objections when
we were striking a bargain. I don’t believe Frowningshield’s any
better, and he’s got more brains. They’ll smelt the ore in France, after
carrying it to some suitable spot along the coast in sailing boats.
But it’ll take two or three days to unload, and I’ll give old Simmons a
fright before that is done. See if there’s a steamer from Southampton
to St. Malo to-night. If not I must go to Brest by way of Paris. I can’t
trust this job to any one else.”
As it happened there was a boat that evening for St. Malo, and so
the two persons who had indulged in a long conversation regarding the
_Rajah_ that afternoon were each in pursuit of her, moving westward;
Schwartzbrod in his berth on board the St. Malo boat, Stranleigh in
his berth on the Plymouth express, while between the two the stanch
old _Rajah_ was threshing her way across the Channel between Brest and
Plymouth, heading for the latter seaport.
Next day Stranleigh greeted Mackeller with something almost approaching
enthusiasm. Neither of them entertained the least suspicion that the
stop at Brest might put Conrad on the trail; but even if they had, they
must have known that the arrival of the _Rajah_ at Plymouth would have
entailed similar consequences if Schwartzbrod’s minions were looking
sharply after his interests.
The _Rajah’s_ stay at Plymouth was very short, merely giving time for
the crew of the yacht to take its station aboard the _Rajah_,
under command of Captain Wilkie, while the crew that had brought
the _Rajah_ into port was placed in the care of Captain Simmons, whose
big steamer, the _Wychwood_, was not yet ready to sail. The _Rajah_ then
rounded the southwest corner of England, and found a berth in the little
haven of Portreath, within easy distance of the smelting furnace.
The _Rajah_ was unloaded with the utmost speed, and the ore conveyed
as quickly as possible to the inclosure which surrounded the smelting
furnace. Stranleigh thought it just as well to get his raw material
under cover with the least possible delay, for, although Portreath
was not a tourist center, one could never be quite certain that some
scientific chap might not happen along, who, picking up a specimen,
would know that it contained gold and not copper. Besides this, the
engineer of the _Rajah_ reported certain defects in engines and boilers
that needed to be seen to and amended before it was safe to face so long
a voyage again; therefore, that no time should be lost, the _Rajah_ was
hurried back to Plymouth to undergo the necessary repairs.
When, after its long abandonment, Lord Stranleigh, with the aid of
Mackeller, restarted his ancient copper mine in Cornwall, he, knowing
nothing of figures, as he said, turned over the mathematical department
of the business to an accountant, one of the twelve business men who
kept his affairs in order. Just before leaving London for Plymouth, he
requested this accountant to furnish him with a statement of profit and
loss, so far as the mine was concerned. This statement he merely glanced
at, saw with satisfaction that the working had resulted in a deficit,
and put the document into his pocket. When the _Rajah_ left Plymouth to
worry her way round the toe of England to Portreath, Lord Stranleigh and
Mackeller took train from Plymouth, and reached Redruth in two hours and
fifteen minutes, from which station they drove together to the copper
mine, Stranleigh having given Mackeller the statement of profit and
loss, and instructing him what he should say when he met the manager of
the mine, whom Peter himself had installed in that position.
Arriving at the office of the works, Mackeller consulted with the
manager, while Lord Stranleigh, beautifully attired in fine garments
quite unsuitable for such a locality, strolled round, taking such
intelligent interest in his environment as a casual tourist displays in
unaccustomed surroundings. The grimy, hard-working smelters gazed with
undisguised contempt at this dandified specimen of humanity, who had so
unexpectedly wandered in among them, and made remarks on his personal
appearance more distinguished for force than courtesy. To these
uncomplimentary allusions the young man paid not the slightest
attention, but dawdled about, one of the men complained, as if he owned
the place. At last the manager and Mackeller came out of the office
together, and word was sent down the pit that all the miners were to
come up. Ribald comment ceased, and an uneasy feeling spread among the
employees that something unpleasant was about to happen. Their intuition
was justified when all the men were gathered together, and the manager
began to speak. He informed them that the reopening of the mine had been
merely an experiment, and he regretted to add that this experiment had
failed through the simple elementary fact that the amount of copper
produced cost more than it would fetch in the metal market of the world.
Operations had been conducted at a loss, and the proprietor was thus
reluctantly compelled to disband his forces, all except four smelters,
who would remain to assist in converting into ingots the remnant of
the ore which had been mined. This intelligence was received in doleful
silence by those whom it affected. Each of them before now had faced the
tragedy caused by lack of work, but custom had made its recurrence none
the more welcome for all that.
The manager, after a pause, continued. The proprietor, he said, was Lord
Stranleigh, and he had given orders which, for generosity, the manager
in all his experience thought was unexampled. Each man was to receive
a year’s pay. At this announcement the gloom suddenly lifted, and a
resounding cheer went up from the men. The manager added that he himself
had been given an important position in one of his lordship’s coal mines
in the north, whereupon the good-natured crowd cheered the manager, who
appeared to be popular with them.
“And now,” concluded the manager, “as Lord Stranleigh is himself
present, he will perhaps choose from the six smelters the four whom he
wishes to employ.”
Stranleigh had been standing apart from the group, listening to the
eloquence of the manager, and now every one turned and looked at him
with more than ordinary interest. His hands, as usual, were in his
pockets, a cigarette between his lips, which nevertheless did not
conceal the humorous smile with which his lordship regarded the six
smelters, who were quite evidently panic-stricken to learn that they
had been exercising their robustious wit on the man with the money; the
important boss who paid the wage. Lord Stranleigh slowly removed his
left hand from his pocket, and took the cigarette from between his lips.
“I think, Mr. Manager,” he said, “we will retain all six,” and so the
congregation was dismissed.
The hoisting gang was retained until all tools and movable ore were
hoisted from the bottom of the mine to the surface of the earth.
Stranleigh himself went down when the cage made its last trip, and
there, by torchlight, examined the workings, listening to explanations
by Mackeller. When he reached daylight again he ordered the dismantling
of the hoisting apparatus, which work of destruction was taken to mean
the final abandonment of the copper mine. Mackeller, thrifty person,
protested against this demolition.
Stranleigh smiled, but did not countermand the order. He and Mackeller
took up their quarters in the manager’s house, its late occupant
having taken his departure for the north. The six smelters were rude,
unintelligent, uneducated men, who saw no difference between one yellow
bar and another, so there was little risk of discovery through their
detection.
“What are you going to do with the gold ingots?” asked Mackeller.
“I was thinking of placing them in a safe deposit vault.”
“You will need to look well to its locks, bolts, and bars,” said the
cautious engineer.
“There will be no bolts and bars,” said Stranleigh. “I shall leave the
ingots open to the sky, without lock or latch. Nobody will interfere
with them.”
“Bless my soul, you’ll never be so foolish as that?” cried Mackeller.
“Why, even the copper was protected by the strongest and safest locks I
could secure.”
Lord Stranleigh merely shrugged his shoulders, and made no further
explanation of his intentions.
At the first smelting the gold was run into ingots weighing about a
hundred pounds each. When the smelters had departed for the day, and the
gates were closed, Stranleigh said to Mackeller:
“Come along, and I’ll show you my safe deposit vault.”
With this he hoisted to his shoulder one of the ingots; still warm,
walked to the mouth of the pit, and flung it into space.
“Not a bad idea,” growled Mackeller, as he followed the example of his
chief, until between them all the gold from the first smelting rested on
the deep and dark floor of the mine.
One day, as the two were sitting together consuming the frugal lunch
that Peter had prepared, a telegram was brought in to Lord Stranleigh.
The young man laughed when he read it, and tossed it across the table to
Mackeller, who read:
“_Rajah_ ready to sail, but to-day was taken possession of by legal
authorities under action of a man named Schwartzbrod. I am under arrest
charged with stealing the _Rajah_. No objection going to prison, but
await instructions. Wilkie, captain.”
“By Jove, the enemy has tracked her,” ejaculated Peter. “I wonder how
they did it!”
“That isn’t the point to wonder over, Peter, when you remember that the
arrival and departure of shipping is announced in every morning paper.
The wonder is that they didn’t get hold of her some days ago. Oh, dear
me, how I am pestered by obstreperous men! Here are you constantly
trying to involve me in a fight, and now here is Schwartzbrod entangling
me in the meshes of the law, while, peaceful man that I am, I detest
equally battles or lawsuits, but the righteous have always been
persecuted, and I suppose I must accept my share of trouble.
Nevertheless, I anticipate some amusement with my friend Schwartzbrod.
If you don’t help me, Peter, don’t help the bear, and you’ll see the
funniest legal fight that ever happened.”
With this Stranleigh retired to dress for town.
“Peter,” he said, on emerging from his bedroom, attired as if he
intended a dawdle down Piccadilly rather than a scramble over Cornish
hills, “Peter, I am going to desert you. Continue the smelting as if we
had not parted, and fling as many bars of gold down that pit as you can,
thankful that for our purposes it is not bottomless, even though the
possession of too much gold may lead to such. It is not that I like your
cooking less, but that I love the cuisine of my club more.”
“You are going to London, then?”
“Ultimately to London, my son, but first to Redruth station; then to
Plymouth. I cannot allow my captain courageous to be flung into prison
merely to please Conrad Schwartzbrod, who ought to be there himself.
I must foregather at Plymouth with some one learned in the law, and so
disconcert, delay, annoy, and at least partially beggar that old thief
Schwartzbrod; therefore, ta-ta, my son, and be as good as you can during
my absence, and when you feel proud because of your ever accumulating
wealth, remember how difficult it is for a rich man to enter heaven, and
thus resume your natural modesty. Good-by.”