Winter crept in. The water in the docks froze; later, great white
blocks were drifting in the river. Then, one bitter night, the
stream was sealed, and shipping was over until the spring, or some
unlooked-for stretch of mild weather.
Anthony had changed his quarters to a neat old house in Sassafras
Street, where he had a bedroom facing the west, and a small snuggery
with a window overlooking the south. Each morning, while the bells in
the towers were ringing seven, his boots were crunching through the
frozen snow on the way to Rufus Stevens' Sons. Always, by half-past
seven on the word of the clock on the counting-house wall, he'd reached
there, hung his great blue coat in a closet, and whipped into the work
at hand.
There never was such a counting-house for order as Rufus Stevens'
Sons. Anthony found that out when he'd only been there a few days.
Its ledgers were models; its clerks had the vanity of perfection; its
windows shone like crystal, the floor planks were white with scrubbing,
and its brass work snapped with the light from fireplaces whose hearths
were ever swept clean of smut.
The deep, cave-like warehouses were equally well kept; the goods in
cases, barrels, and bales were ranked in massive and severe array; the
carts and drays were smart with paint, their horses strong and well
conditioned.
Anthony's place in the counting-house was somewhat unsettled; the
business was so methodical, so well arranged that a new hand, no matter
what it touched, or how lightly, seemed superfluous. And this very
fact he was quick to seize upon, and turn to his purpose.
"I don't think I'll have any real use here," he told his uncle, "until
I can digest the history of the house; I'll have, especially, to
arrange in my mind all its doings of a decade past. I want to grow up
with it, in a sense."
Charles smiled at this. Weir's stone-like eyes were fixed on the young
man's face in an oddly watchful way.
"That has a very thorough sound," Charles said. "But," with a shake of
the head, "it implies a deal of labor."
"I can understand his attitude," said Captain Weir quite gravely.
"There is nothing like becoming saturated with the thing one starts
out to understand." To Anthony he said, and there was now nothing but
encouragement in the singular eyes, "Your plan is an excellent one;
and, fortunately, you can escape most of the drudgery of it, for there
are people still in the employ of the house who can tell you all you'll
need to know."
Anthony permitted himself to drift with the measured trade of the
winter months, and, during this time, he looked about him. Those who
saw to the routine in the counting-room were Whitaker, a new-comer in
the place; the affable man--who Anthony learned was named Griggs; and
then there was Tom Horn, who stood all day at his tall desk and entered
items in his books; also a gray, quiet man named Twitchell, who had
a great pride in the house and glowed when it was spoken of. Anthony
began with Whitaker and carefully led him into speech.
"Of course," said the fop, as he played with a bunch of seals at his
watch-fob, "my service only goes back five years; and most of that was
spent in other places. This is a great house; every one says so. I
never had any trouble disposing of cargo; and I never had any trouble
securing accounts. Of course there were those two ships that went
down--very unfortunate occurrences. Oh, yes, it's a very considerable
house."
Whitaker then went on to speak of the ports he'd visited in the firm's
service, the food to be had in them, the beauty of their women, and
the splendor of their climates. Cooling drinks under the shade of
awnings, with dusky servants to fan one; strange, sweet music that
stole through languorous nights; journeys into the interior on the
invitation of merchants or agents; the magnificence of the lives of the
rajahs: robes studded with jewels; carpets worth fabulous sums, thrown
upon the ground; harems crowded with loveliness; dark eyes everywhere;
adventure; whisperings; wealth; plenty; little effort.
But there was nothing that attracted the sharply focussed mind of
Anthony. He noted that Whitaker was one who never saw the reality
of anything in which he was engaged, except by accident. For a time
Anthony strove to come upon such an occasion; but, except for the loss
of the _Two Brothers_, and the _Sea Mew_, there was nothing outstanding.
"It was a singular chance," said Whitaker, "those two ships going down.
I've often thought about it. Both were well found, finely officered,
with American crews. Rich cargoes, too, and fully insured."
"Then there was no loss," said Anthony.
"Not a dollar, except to the insurance people."
There was another point upon which Anthony desired information; and he
carefully led Whitaker to it.
"You had a narrow escape with the _Sea Mew_," said he. "Your not
sailing in her from Lisbon was quite providential."
"I'd gone down like a stone," said the dandy. "It was only the house's
hurry to get me to Brest, with those papers for Lafargue, that saved
me."
"I remember you mentioned some papers," said Anthony, "but I forget
what you said they were."
Whitaker took on the same resentful look he'd worn when he first spoke
of the matter at Dr. King's.
"I never knew," said he. "Devil of a way, wasn't it? sending me pelting
off like that, and never knowing what it was about. I felt like a fool!
And that old Lafargue's a close-mouthed gentleman, I can tell you. No
danger of any one ever worming anything out of him."
"You thought yourself badly treated, then?" said Anthony.
"Candidly, I did."
"Have you ever said so, here in the counting-house, to any one in
authority?"
"Yes, once in a conversation with Mr. Weir I saw an opportunity to
mention the matter, and did so. Mr. Weir is always considerate and
listened to what I had to say. Then he told me I'd better speak to Mr.
Stevens. But, you know, Mr. Stevens seldom bothers about things like
that; so I took the thing no further. I have no doubt, though, that I
was treated like a junior clerk; for whatever the word was I took to
Lafargue it made a particular stir in his place of business."
"Did you ask no questions, then?"
"You may be sure I did. But no one answered them. It was quite
mortifying."
One day, at the hour for such things, Anthony found himself in a snug
corner of a near-by ale house; quite by chance the affable clerk,
Griggs, who had also come in for a snack, was seated beside him. Griggs
seemed quite put out of countenance by the weather.
"The ice in the river," said he, "is so thick that the whole population
seems skating on it of a night. Access to the Jerseys is very easy now;
carts are going to and fro by the dozens; and venison and wild fowl are
very cheap. But when will an anchor be lifted? When will another ship
get up, to discharge her merchandise? They say the ice is solid all the
way to New Castle."
"And yet," said Anthony, "you must have seen many a winter that was as
bad."
Griggs nodded. He was of that comfortable temper that loves
reminiscence; and, then, his mug of ale was mulled to his liking, hot
and delectable, and smelling of ginger, a drink well suited to keeping
the winter out of the system.
"The last winter Clinton's men held the city was a cold one," said he.
"You are too young to recall it. Their big ships of war were so thick
with ice that it looked as though they were to be cased in it forever.
I try not to speak ill of any one," said the affable clerk, "but those
men of Clinton's were a loutish lot; such guzzlers of malt liquor you
never saw. You'd thought, from the way they acted, that a plain man
such as myself hadn't so much as a mouth on him. In the spring, when
the ice had gone, they left; and glad enough we were to see their
backs. Your grandfather was one of the first to come tearing into the
city afterwards; they'd driven him out two years before, and he'd
carried on what business he could from Baltimore, New London, and other
places. I sat in this very bar, with a mug of this selfsame ale in my
hand, and saw him go by on a fine roan horse. In a fortnight those of
his ships that were left were running in and out, around the capes,
under the very noses of the blockaders. He was a forthright man, was
old Mr. Stevens."
"Was it after that time that you came into his employ?" asked Anthony.
"Oh, no," said Griggs. "Before. In fact, Tom Horn and myself have
almost grown up in Rufus Stevens' Sons. I was a boy, keeping tally on
the docks, when your grandfather was still master of one of Brownlow's
ships; an Indiaman, she was. And when he began to adventure for himself
he selected me to be clerk in his counting-room. And very proud I was
of it."
"Have you always been stationed in the city?"
"Always, except for a few times when I went in a schooner to Havana, or
one of the islands, to see to some small matter."
"I understand the house is one that's always been quite steady--that
there's been few ups and downs."
"No house has had fewer," said Griggs. "A solid, stable business,
if there ever was one. Of course," with a deprecating wave of the
hand, "there have been flurries now and then. Little things, that
were somewhat annoying. But, then, one can't always control excitable
people."
"Flurries!" said Anthony, his interest fixed. "What sort of flurries?
And who were the people who were excited?"
"Misfortune, at times, overtakes every one," said the affable clerk.
"And we have had our full share of it on the sea, from time to time.
Ships have been lost, and there have been discussions about insurance,
and such-like."
"I see; the excited persons were insurance people." Anthony stroked his
long jaw. "What were the discussions about?"
Griggs gestured his contempt.
"Why, I don't rightly know," said he. "I make it a rule never to listen
to foolish clacking. If a ship is lost, say I, she's lost; and the
insurance should be paid over without delay. A few times--in the matter
of the _Sea Mew_, particularly--I was afraid these people would grow
offensive with their prying and their questioning. Mr. Sparhawk, who
is well known to your uncle, seemed to be specially forward in this.
I don't see how Captain Weir kept his patience at times, for it was
usually the captain who received him, and Mr. Sparhawk's persistence
must have been very trying."
Sparhawk! Anthony recalled the perky little man whom he had met at
Dr. King's, and he stored the name away for future reference. This
conversation with Griggs occupied the best part of an hour, but Anthony
got nothing from it; several times during the same week he returned
to the task, but the result was the same. Griggs was a good-natured,
honest, competent man in his work, but thick-headed.
And so Anthony turned to Twitchell. When the subject of the house was
touched upon, the gray old clerk began to beam. It was, so he held, a
model for all other establishments; and that it was so highly regarded
was most gratifying. When one mentioned its name to any one, a sound
footing was entered upon at once. It was a pleasure to be connected
with such a house; indeed, it was almost like being in government
employ. And its ships were so famous! The merchandise it dealt in was
so sought after! And every one about the premises, from the boy who
swept the warehouse to the head of the business, had some jolly or
endearing quality, so that it was the most enjoyable thing imaginable
to be associated with them.
Twitchell, with his silver-rimmed spectacles mounted upon his forehead,
and his quill underscoring in the air all his points, maintained this
level of unalloyed gratification and belief whenever Anthony approached
the subject which interested him most. And finally the young man gave
it up and took to sitting at a window and glowering at the winter
street, the ice-choked river, and the empty ships, hung with their
thousand crystal points of light.
"First I have a dandy," growled Anthony, "who thinks of little but
dress, pretty women, and his own importance. Next, a good-natured
dunce; then a kindly soul, blinded by his own optimism. None of them
ever see anything except what they are asked to see; and so what chance
have I of coming on anything by way of them."
Of course there was still Tom Horn. And Anthony smiled as he thought
of him. Tom Horn never spoke to any one unless he was spoken to. All
day he added, and subtracted, and multiplied, and dotted his "i's"
and crossed his "t's." His white, nervous hands seemed tireless; his
thin body was bent over the high desk where the great books of the
house lay open before him. On the first morning Anthony spent in the
counting-room Griggs said, behind his hand:
"Don't mind Tom. A kindly chap and harmless, but queer."
Once Anthony mentioned the man to his uncle; Charles smiled and said;
"Poor Tom! I'm very fond of him. But I'm afraid there _is_ too much
moon-glow in his mind. He was shipwrecked once, and I think that was
the cause of it. But he's a shrewd hand at accounts; I've seen no
better anywhere, and he's as dependable as might be. But he's queer."
The queerness Anthony was prepared to grant; but after a few days in
the place, when he'd got settled down sufficiently to notice details,
he began to feel it manifest itself in ways that carried a disquieting
touch. Should he pass Tom Horn's desk, Anthony would see him bent over,
scratching away at his figures; but as soon as the young man got by he
had the feeling that the bent head had been lifted and that the man
was following him with his eyes. Sometimes Anthony would sit with a
heap of the routine work of the place before him or turning some vexed
thing over in his mind; then an odd, restless feeling would come over
him, and he'd look up, irritated. Over the edge of the tall desk he'd
see the peculiarly glowing eyes of the man fixed upon him. This Anthony
noted quite often, and in various ways. In the street he'd see Tom Horn
standing behind a bale of goods or a hogshead, watching him guardedly;
or it might be that his vantage-place would be a doorway, or behind
the jutting edge of a sharp window. But always he had the same steady
stare, his brows bent, a difficult something apparently revolving in
his troubled mind. Tom was always first in the counting-room of a
morning; an old porter told Anthony that he was there very often as
early as four o'clock.
"I always have a fire for Mr. Horn," said the man. "There's no telling
when he'll come in and start his day. He's an early bird, indeed, Mr.
Horn is."
Anthony always bade the eccentric clerk the time of day; but Tom Horn
never replied except with a questioning look that continued long after
the young man had turned away. But one morning Anthony had occasion to
hand him some bills for entry, and Tom surprised him by saying in his
peculiarly hushed voice:
"Every one gives me figures. I see figures in my sleep."
"I don't doubt it," smiled Anthony.
"Each figure," said Tom Horn, "is made up of parts of other figures.
Have you ever thought of that? Each leads into each; and so they make a
circle. All circles are open, but they grow narrower. Sometimes they do
it themselves; sometimes," and he nodded his head, his eyes fast upon
Anthony's face, "we make them do it. There's a law for it; it's a law
every one should study."
He again nodded his head, and remained looking after Anthony until
the young man went out of the room. After that, when Anthony saw the
strange eyes upon him,--and this was likely to occur at any hour of
the day,--Tom Horn always nodded to him; and, oddly enough, Anthony
fancied he detected in it something of approval--something, too, of
encouragement.
But the days of the early winter dragged. There was none of the stir
of vessels arriving and departing; none of the receiving of stores of
new merchandise, none of the sudden bustlings and gossip of trade, and
of money and exchange, that quickened things when the river was open.
And, as each slow day went by, Anthony was weighted more and more with
the conviction that no arresting sign would show itself in the midst
of this commercial usualness; no sign _could_ show itself. He watched
minutely; he carefully balanced what he saw against the indefinite
things he suspected. But the result was emptiness. His mind met with
polished perfection; his thoughts seemed to slip futilely about among
the smooth ways of the business. Not one thing threw even the shadow of
a promise across his path.
One early morning, as he shook the snow from his cloak and stamped it
from his boots before the counting-room fire, Tom Horn was arranging
his books upon the desk; and Anthony said, smilingly:
"You'll be a very wise man one day, Tom. All this poring over books
should lead to something."
"The books of the world, hold the world's knowledge," said Tom Horn.
"And too few people give attention to them."
"That's true," said Anthony, "most of us do not employ ourselves with
as many of them as we should."
"Sometimes," said the clerk, "men try to draw their knowledge from the
things in which they find themselves. In that way they limit their
possibilities; for there are always other and wider things that might
serve them better. One man can only hope to gain a little from the
world as it turns, and that little is not of much service. But the
accumulated findings of many men are ready written down. If you desire
to make plain what's keenest in your mind, go to books, study them
diligently, study many of them; it will cost you but the price of so
much lamp-oil, or so many candles, and the use of evening hours that
you'd otherwise throw away."
Anthony smiled.
"That's excellent advice, Tom," he said. "And I've no doubt I'd do well
to follow it."
The nights were long and cold and dark that winter; Anthony had no
desire for social diversions, and he resisted the calls made upon him
by his uncle, by Dr. King, by Whitaker; he desired to hold his mind to
one thing, and every hour was given to its solution.
When he'd shut the door of the counting-room of a night, leaving the
trusty old porter to draw the fires and put out the lamps, he'd trudge
away to some tavern and have a lonely supper; then he'd be off through
the snow, for the weather held sharp, and there was little thaw, to his
lodgings in Sassafras Street, where he'd sit and brood by candle-light.
Now and then he'd allow himself the pleasure of a visit to Christopher
Dent; and there, in the back room, he'd smoke and listen to the little
apothecary's pleased reminiscences of days that had long gone by. Once
or twice during these visits Tom Horn also chanced in to warm his legs
by Christopher's stove, before seeking the room he had in a court
off Front Street. But on these occasions he'd say nothing. Stamping
the snow from his heels, he'd hang his hat upon a peg and take his
accustomed chair by the stove. And while Christopher talked and Anthony
smoked and listened, Tom Horn would keep his eyes fixed upon the young
man's face; what he saw there must have pleased him, for every now and
then he'd break forth into a series of approving nods, and he'd rub his
well-warmed worsted stockings smartly and with much confidence.
Of course, Anthony knew who Christopher's lodgers were; he'd frowned
when he first heard it, and when he reached his rooms that night his
thoughts were far from pleasant. He could never quite forget the
beautiful, spirited creature he'd seen on the first morning after his
arrival in the city; he could never quite forget the tremble in her
rich voice as she appealed to him for aid. Also, and his brow grew dark
at this, he could never forget the look she'd given him that night at
the Crooked Billet, that cold, stabbing look of scorn; and her head had
turned away so that she might not see him, and she had walked into the
conference of his enemies.
Each time after a visit at Christopher's he'd go through this, and each
time the train of thought would have its beginning in some trifling
thing. Once as he left the apothecary's shop he saw the windows of the
second floor lighted up and the lamp glow shining down upon the snow.
Once while he sat with his pipe in the apothecary's back room he heard
a light foot on the stairs beyond the partition wall; the street door
opened and closed. She had gone out! The streets were dark and lonely!
He had half arisen to follow her; then he crushed himself back in his
chair. At still another time he heard the faint tinkling of a stringed
instrument, and the sweet murmur of a voice, singing a little French
song. There was a peaceful something in this that shook Anthony; and as
he sat in his room afterward his thoughts were very bitter, indeed.
He tried not to think of her; but when she gained a way into his mind
his reflections always had one ending. Magruder! Had there ever been
a more vicious and sordid taking off? Was there ever a more bloody or
evil deed? The stains of it were deep on Tarrant and the big young
man. And the girl? Was she not their friend? Had she not been in Water
Street about the time the thing was done? Had not a rumor tied a woman
to the crime? Every pulse in his body sent protests to his mind; but
his mind was fixed, and he'd rise up and tramp the floor.
One day Charles Stevens did not appear at the counting-room, being ill
of a congestion. And in the evening Anthony took him some papers which
it was thought necessary that he see, and found him wrapped comfortably
in a rug before a fire in the library, reading a play-book. It was then
that the words of Tom Horn about books came back to Anthony; and after
he had discussed the matter of the papers with his uncle he approached
one of the crowded bookcases.
"Sometimes I feel the need of a little variety in my thinking," he
said. "Would you mind if I took one or two of these away with me?"
Charles, with the play-book lying upon his snugly wrapped knees, looked
at him and smiled.
"Your grandfather never concerned himself with books," said he; "and
you are such a replica of him that I took it for granted that your
taste must be the same."
Anthony had opened the case and was rummaging among its contents, and
Charles went on.
"Those rakehells of the Restoration will amuse you, if your taste
runs to their kind," and he riffled the leaves of the play-book with
kindly fingers. "You'll find them there in the second shelf, next the
fireplace. Or, if you'd rather take a step back, the Elizabethans
are just below, and they are a crew that'll shake your soul, or
your ribs, just as you'd have them. Those Italian tale-tellers were
shrewd workmen,--there in the pigskin, right under your hand,--but
if you think you'd care for romance nearer to this present day there
is Defoe's narrative of the shipwrecked sailor, and also Fielding's
chronicle of life as he's seen it in his own England."
There was an array of pudgy little books, with stout leather backs and
stained edges, upon a shelf quite low in the case. Anthony stooped,
took one out, and opened it. The eyes of Charles sparkled.
"Voyages!" said he. "That one, I'll wager, is Bartholomew Diaz; how
often I've sailed with him as a boy through the pages of that book,
to the mouth of the Great Fish River. And there is fine old Vasco da
Gama! Many a summer afternoon he and I have doubled the cape, put
the complaining pilots in irons, and thrown their quadrants into the
sea. And Columbus, and Cabot, and the Merchant Adventurers' Company.
There's a rank and file for you, if you want actual deeds and fine
accomplishment; Hawkins, Drake, Davis, Sir Humphrey Gilbert, and that
never-beaten Yorkshireman, Martin Frobisher--"
"What are these?" asked Anthony.
At the bottom of the bookcase, stacked one upon the other, was an array
of huge volumes, strong-looking and clean, and each with a number
marked upon the leather back, in ink.
"More voyages," smiled Charles. "More expeditions, traffickings, and
discoveries. But they are quite modern. In those a patient reader would
find a complete record of the doings of Rufus Stevens' Sons, set down
from the beginning."
Again Anthony thought of Tom Horn, but now in a new way. Again he saw
him, with the successors of these same books before him on the tall
desk, and heard him repeat, with an odd significance appearing in the
words for the first time:
"The accumulated findings of many men are already written down. If you
desire to make plain what's keenest in your mind, go to books, study
them diligently, study many of them. It will cost you but the price of
lamp-oil, or so many candles, and the use of some winter nights that
you might otherwise throw away."
Anthony carried one of the big volumes to the table and opened it under
the light. It was kept in a fine, flowing hand, in very black ink and
with its rulings perfectly done.
"That's one of old Carberry's," said Charles. "A fine old fellow. He
was before Tom Horn. Before him was Lucas, and before Lucas was Parker,
a young Quaker who went into a business of his own. Mason had the books
while your father was still with us, but there were two or three others
between Mason and Parker."
Anthony gave him an odd look.
"You seem to have had a number of accountants of late years," said he.
Charles smiled, rather ruefully.
"Yes," said he, "that's true. I don't understand how it is. Our other
work-people stay on with us for years. But, among those who have kept
our accounts, Tom Horn seems to be the only one who could or would
remain."
Anthony's eyes went hungrily up and down the careful columns.
"I think," said he, "I'd rather dip into these than into any other
books you have." And then, as his uncle looked at him in surprise, he
added, "If I'm to come to the core of the firm's doings, I see no more
direct way than this."
"Well, after all," said Charles amusedly, "I was not far wrong. You are
your grandfather over again. He'd have preferred the counting-house
books to any romance or comedy ever penned."
And so when Anthony set out for his lodgings that night, he carried
with him a number of the firm's books; they ran in regular order, and
the dates on their backs were of the years immediately following his
father's withdrawal from the business.