THE RETURN OF MR. FROST
Gordon, with apparent reluctance, rose slowly from the table. "Rose,"
he said, "this has been most delightful. If life, now, were all
Saturday afternoons and Sundays, with none of this getting back to
work again on Monday mornings, what a good time we should have."
The girl forced a smile, though her eyes were troubled. "Yes," she
said, "it has been delightful, only--I do so wish things were really
settled for good. Can't you begin to tell something, Dick, about how
long it will be?"
Gordon made an effort not to appear annoyed. "No," he answered, a
trifle coldly, "I certainly can't, and, for that matter, nobody can.
For a guess, though, I should think that another six months would see
things pretty well fixed. I expect to see Frost this morning, and of
course a lot depends on the kind of report I get from him. If it's
what I'm hoping for, it's practically the last link in the chain. If
it isn't, then it's a choice between waiting or taking a chance on
something that may go and may not. So it's really an impossibility, as
you can see for yourself, to say just when things will be settled
Still, I can't see but what we're doing pretty well as we are. You're
not unhappy, are you?"
The girl's troubled look did not alter. "No," she said, half
doubtfully, "not really unhappy, but if I didn't know that this would
all be over soon, and that within a year we should be married and
settled down, I'm afraid I should be--miserably so. It's no kind of a
life to be leading, the way we are now. Do you remember, Dick, the
afternoon we went to the island?"
Gordon nodded. No incident connected with his trips to the island was
ever likely to escape his memory. "I do, very well," he answered
shortly.
The girl nodded in her turn. "Then you probably remember," she
continued, "what I said that day. And I've never changed my mind
since. Just to be by ourselves somewhere in a little place in the
country, and I should never want to be rich or want to see the city
again. That would be my idea of being happy, Dick, but of course
you've got your ambitions, and I've no right to want to hinder them."
[Illustration: Gordon. Page 167]
Gordon laughed. "The eternal feminine," he quoted. "I'm sorry, my
dear, but I'm afraid I can't give them up, even to please you. Let me
try them first, anyway, and then, if you're still of the same mind,
we'll have the cottage and the roses to fall back on in our old age.
Well, I suppose I must really be going. Until next week, then."
He stooped and kissed her, and in another moment the door had closed
behind him, and he was striding away down the street.
Outwardly, to the casual passer-by, he appeared the very embodiment of
content; prosperous, untroubled, self-satisfied. But inwardly, his
keen mind was busy forecasting the future, and he was even then
dissecting himself, his strong and weak points, his successes and his
failures, as judicially and as mercilessly as he might have done if he
had been sitting in judgment on some stranger in whom and in whose
fortunes he had not a ray of interest.
"Promising to marry her," he mused; "that was the worst mistake. I had
to do it, of course, to get at old Pearson, and to get at Palmer, and
for that matter I was crazy enough about her for a while to promise
anything, but I was a fool not to look further ahead. It's only fools,
anyway, who say, 'Let's cross that bridge when we get to it.' I
suppose a more dangerous proverb was never coined. In plain English,
all it means is that we're too lazy to take a look ahead to see if
there's a bridge there at all. Yes, that was my mistake. Given a
hundred thousand and my start, I was ready to promise anything, and
now there's so much ahead I never dreamed of then, marrying her seems
absolutely out of the question. Who would ever have foreseen, though,
that she'd develop this spasm of virtue? If she'd been what I thought
she was--and what I had every reason for thinking she was--I imagine
things could have been fixed up easily enough. I wonder whether--"
Abstractedly, as he crossed towards the park, he had paused for a
passing victoria. As the carriage passed, he noticed that its only
occupant was a girl, her slender figure clothed in deep black, and
glancing up, he was just in time to receive Miss Sinclair's friendly
bow. Raising his hat, he passed on and entered the park.
"The devil!" he muttered. "Coincidences are queer things." And with a
shrug of his shoulders he turned his thoughts in the direction of the
day's plans.
Ten minutes later he entered the Equitable Building, and turned sharp
to the left where the doors leading into the big ground floor office
suite bore the inscription, "Gordon and Randall; Investment
Securities."
Confident in himself as he was, firm believer as he had been from the
first in the destinies of himself and his firm, even he still felt a
trifle awe-struck at the wonder of it all. Only a few months ago and
he had been proud of his little two room and a ticker establishment,
proud of the fact that he had a stock clerk, a stenographer and an
office boy, proud that he was slowly piling up his modest profits,
regarding a five hundred share order with veneration--and now--the
huge modern office lay outspread before him, clean, light, spacious,
the delicate tracery of steel work taking the place of old-time
partition and creaking door. To the right, occupying more than half
the whole floor space was the huge "cage," with its ordered ranks of
busy bookkeepers, cashiers, order clerks, margin clerks, telephone
operators and messengers; in front, the pleasant room reserved
for the firm's customers, where the casual investor might drop in
for a moment to read at a glance the long rows of quotations on the
board, and where the leisurely professionals gathered daily from ten
to three to sit and smoke in the big cushioned armchairs, basking
pleasantly in the sunshine, and listening to the whirring tickers
as they sang their two songs, one merry and cheerful--up,
up,--click, click,--up, up,--the other sorrowful and full of
discouragement,--down--click--down, down--click--away, way down,
more margin, quick,--click, click,--down, down, still further down,
down--and out. To the left lay the private offices of the firm; first,
the luxurious ladies' room; then, in sequence, the room for ordinary
private business, then Gordon's and Randall's private consulting-room,
and last of all, the holy of holies, Gordon's own special office, cosy
and homelike, where he could retire when he pleased and be as safe
from intrusion or interruption as though he were a thousand miles
away. All in all, it was small wonder that Gordon stood still for the
briefest of moments, looking quickly to right and left with the glance
of the general marshalling his forces in review before going into
action. Then, with a momentary glow of just self-satisfaction, he
turned into the first office on the left and hastened to his desk.
Field, his private secretary, had just finished sorting the mail, and
stood waiting by the window while Gordon quickly ran through the
letters that were left, checking, penciling, laying aside, with speed
and despatch, and yet with due consideration and without haste; then
he called Field to his side.
"Well, Bert," he said affably, "they seem to be mostly routine, don't
they? These you can attend to, if you'll be so kind. These go to Mr.
Brown, and these I wish you'd give to Sumner, and ask him to look them
up sometime before noon. I'll take them up with him directly after
lunch. Now, how about Mr. Frost? Can he manage to get over here this
morning without inconvenience?"
Field nodded. Latterly he had noticed that upon request people
generally found that they were able without apparent inconvenience to
get over to his employer's office at almost any time. "Yes, sir," he
answered promptly, "I managed to see Mr. Frost personally, and he said
that he'd be here sharp at half past ten."
"Thank you very much, Bert," said Gordon. "That's very good indeed. I
think there's nothing more just now. I may ring a little later if I
want you. If you will just keep on the lookout for Mr. Frost, and as
soon as he comes show him right in."
Field nodded and withdrew, appearing again at the end of fifteen
minutes to usher in Mr. William D. Frost, widely known as one of the
three highest-priced mining experts in the United States. Mr. Frost,
as usual, was true to his word, for the clock struck the half hour
sharply just at the moment that his spectacled, benevolent face
appeared in the doorway.
Gordon rose quickly. "My dear Frost," he cried, "I'm delighted to see
you back. You look as fit as possible. Come right in and make yourself
comfortable."
Frost shook hands, followed Gordon into the inner office, and took the
proffered arm-chair which Gordon drew up in front of the pleasant
warmth of the open fire. He was a short, stout man, whose round, ruddy
face and twinkling eyes gave not the slightest indication of the
really remarkable brain within. One might perhaps have classed him as
a traveling man, possibly as a prosperous manufacturer, as a long shot
one might even have risked the guess that he had about him something
of the magnetism of the successful politician, but the part of the
mining expert scarcely seemed to fit. Leaning far back in his chair,
legs crossed, the finger-tips of either hand touching one another, he
threw Gordon a quick glance of inquiry. "All ready?" he queried, and
then, as Gordon nodded, he began with characteristic directness and
precision to speak.
"A," he said, much as if his whole subject had been neatly typewritten
and docketed in his orderly brain, "Preliminary recapitulation, if we
may so term it. And subdivision one of same, my part in the
enterprise."
He paused for an instant, and then continued. "Six months ago you
intrusted me with what we might designate as a kind of roving
commission. My task was to locate for you, within the limits of North
America, a genuine gold, silver or copper mine, or rather, to be
perfectly explicit, not exactly a mine, but a claim or prospect, with
such excellent possibilities attaching to it that one might easily
make of it, with proper development, a first-class producing and
dividend paying proposition. In a word, what you wished me to find for
you was a mine in embryo? Am I so far correct?"
Gordon nodded. "Absolutely correct," he answered good-humoredly. "No
lawyer could state the facts more clearly, or more concisely."
Frost checked on the fingers of his left hand. "Subdivision two," he
continued, "your responsibility in the matter. You were to pay all
necessary expenses, give me a salary of two thousand dollars a month,
and in addition, if I so desired, you were to allot to me one-fiftieth
part of the capital stock of the company, if any such company was ever
formed. That, I take it, is also correct?"
Gordon again nodded. "To the letter," he answered briefly.
Frost, with his left hand, made a little gesture of dismissal, as if
mentally telling the stenographer that she might now return the papers
to the safe.
"Very good," he said, "and now for part B. Written report of my
investigations."
From his inner breast pocket he drew a packet of papers, and handed
them to Gordon. "One," he said, "itemized expense account. Two, bill
for services. Three, typewritten report of work done, one hundred and
thirty-nine pages; and, four, condensed summary of results attained
and conclusions reached, eleven pages. All of these, of course, to be
gone over by you at your leisure, after which I shall be glad to
discuss any points or to answer any questions you may care to ask."
Gordon laid the papers carefully on his desk. "Most excellent," he
cried. "If all the world had your ideas of system, Frost, it wouldn't
be such an infernally haphazard sort of place as it is. You've been
more than good to take so much trouble. And now, as I'm apparently in
for a pretty busy week, suppose we take advantage of the opportunity,
and, entirely apart from your report, have you give me in a general
way a little account of how things have gone."
Frost nodded his assent. "I anticipated that you would in all
probability make such a request," he answered, "and we may
accordingly"--he tapped the third finger of his left hand--"proceed to
C, brief verbal summary of my investigations."
He paused, with the cautious hesitancy of a man given to much thought
before putting his ideas into words, while Gordon perforce restrained
his impatience as best he might. At length Frost broke the silence.
"Of course, Mr. Gordon," he said, "you understand that mining
forecasts are about the most uncertain things in an uncertain world,
but, so far as I can tell, I've had really rather remarkable success.
You'll find all this in the report, of course, but the situation, in
just a word, is this: During my trip I've looked into over two hundred
claims and prospects. In all but fifteen or twenty I found, right at
the start, some radical defect; something wrong in the size or the
location of the mine, or in the quality of the mineral. Of those
remaining, I made, of course, a far more extended examination, and the
result is that I have three propositions on which I am quite willing
to stake my professional reputation. One is a copper mine in Arizona,
one is a silver mine in British Columbia, and the third is a copper
mine at the lake."
Gordon's eyes gleamed. "Three!" he exclaimed with enthusiasm. "Well,
that's certainly good enough. And which of the three do you consider
the one best bet?"
Frost's forehead wrinkled doubtfully. "Not to be too discouraging, Mr.
Gordon," he answered, "I ought to say that in the case of all three
there are certain disadvantages to be considered, and certain
obstacles to be overcome. Take the Arizona mine. The price is
exorbitant, to start with; there's a large amount of construction work
to be done under unfavorable conditions; I'm not sure but what,
considering that it's a low grade proposition, at best, the cost of
production would run fairly high; and then, too, there seems to be a
possibility of serious labor troubles out that way before long, which,
while probably not a determining factor, ought still to be reckoned
with."
Gordon laughed. "Yes," he said, with irony, "just to start with, that
does sound a little discouraging. Haven't you anything better than
that to say for the others?"
Frost sighed. "Better--or worse; I don't know which," he answered.
"The silver mine has really caused me a great deal of anxiety. The
deposit itself is wonderfully, almost incredibly, rich. One of the
most interesting problems, purely from a geological standpoint, that I
think I have ever seen. The truth about it is that it's totally
undeveloped, and it's practically an impossibility to predict anything
about the depth and extent of the deposit. As a straight mining
proposition, it's easily the biggest gamble of the three, but really
nothing more than a gamble. If, however--" he paused for a moment, and
then continued apologetically: "This is, of course, entirely outside
my province, but if the mine is to be looked at at all from the stock
market point of view, and not entirely on its intrinsic merits, then
the extreme richness of the surface deposit is so spectacular that I
should judge that would be a strong point in the mine's favor."
Gordon smiled. "Sometimes," he said softly, "even in the case of a
perfectly legitimate enterprise like this, people will insist on
looking at it merely as a market venture. It's a curious thing, Frost,
isn't it?"
Frost, feeling sure that he understood Gordon perfectly, smiled also.
"Yes," he assented, "it is. So many people nowadays want to live
without working, and, as a result, they get worked."
Gordon laughed delightedly. "That's good, Frost," he cried, "very
good, indeed. I must remember that. But to get back to business, how
about the copper mine at the lake?"
Frost at once resumed his wonted gravity. "The copper mine at the
lake, if we could get it, Mr. Gordon"--he lowered his voice
confidentially--"I believe to be far and away the best of the lot.
It's really exceedingly interesting. You know, yourself, of course,
that the only ground at the lake not already taken up is south of
Octagon County, down where the Batavian and the Anona and all those
properties are located, or else north as far as Seneca. Mining men
have always disagreed, and still do disagree, as to what becomes of
the Onondaga lode when it dips. Personally I have always believed that
somewhere about the locality of the Batavian was the place to strike
the lode, so, on my way west, I stopped there first of all, without, I
must confess, finding much that interested me. The Seneca theory I've
never been a believer in, and I hardly think I should have stopped
there at all except that I wanted to do a thorough job. As a result,
however, I'm afraid I've got to admit that I've been wrong, and that
Paine and those other fellows have been right. It happened like this:
I got in with a man named Peters out there, and got to know him pretty
well, too. His own claim is a rather fair one; nothing startling; just
a good, likely claim; but the one adjoining his is the jewel. They're
all talking about it out there, and I got information enough, and saw
samples enough, to convince me that that's the mine we want. But--and
I'm sorry to say it's a big But--the claim is owned by an old fellow
named Mason, a man of character and intelligence, but half crazy over
the mine. It's meat and drink, body and soul, wife and child, to him,
and he's absolutely fixed against parting with it, even though it's
clear to every one but himself that he can never develop it alone. So
there's where we stand. My advice would be that if you can get Mason's
claim by hook or crook, you want it; it's the best of the three. If
you actually can't get it, try the silver mine, unless you're
unwilling to run the risk of losing your market reputation by getting
your friends into a gamble that may go wrong. If you have that feeling
about it, think over the Arizona proposition pretty carefully before
you decide on it; it's safe, but hardly immensely profitable, I think.
Do I make myself clear?"
Gordon thought a moment. "Perfectly," he said at length, "except in
one particular. You speak of getting Mason's claim by hook or crook.
Just what do you mean by that?"
Frost looked a trifle uncomfortable. "Well," he said at last, "we none
of us like to own up to making failures, but I feel that somehow I
ought to have done better with Mason. It may be all fancy, but I think
the right man could have put the thing through. It's like this:
Mason's got a pretty daughter, and there's a young fellow named
Harrison who works with Mason who's sweet on her. Now, I guess, when
you come right down to it, Harrison's word would go a long way toward
deciding the thing with the old man; and I don't think I managed to
hit it off just right with Harrison. They're a queer crowd out there,
and I believe the man you want to send to clench things had better be
the hail-fellow-well-met kind who can keep his end up whether it's
drinking whisky, or fighting, or talking copper claims. Those seem to
be the three principal industries of Seneca, and you can imagine the
impression I made. Whisky always disagreed with me, and I'm
essentially a man of peace. You need a man with red blood in him to
get on out there; what they term, I believe, from something I
overheard supposed to be somewhat to my discredit, 'a good mixer.' The
right man can get that claim; I'm confident of it, but, frankly, I'm
not the man. You see, I'm really not what you'd call a sport, Mr.
Gordon."
Gordon laughed long and heartily. "No, Frost," he said, when he could
speak, "your worst enemy couldn't say that about you. But you're a
mighty good judge of human nature, just the same, which is infinitely
more to your credit. I think I catch your idea perfectly. The only
thing now is to get the man, and that may be difficult. I wonder, now,
how I would do?"
Mr. Frost gazed at him meditatively. Then his face brightened. "I
confess that hadn't occurred to me," he said, "but I can see many
points in favor of such a decision. In the first place, you can thus
keep the thing quiet, and that, of course, is of prime importance. As
to your qualifications, you've been an athlete of distinction; I know
you can adapt yourself to all sorts of company, and I believe,
further, whether it's to your credit or not, you bear the reputation
of never having been known to refuse a drink. The mining details I
think I could prime you sufficiently on, but, really, after all, it's
the other qualities that are going to carry the thing through." He
nodded thoughtfully to himself, then said again, "Yes, I can certainly
see many points in favor of such a decision."
Gordon rose. "Well," he said, smiling, "I'm glad to know you think so
well of me. We'll take a day or two to think things over, and then
we'll have another talk. I'm tremendously obliged to you for all your
trouble, and I'll send that check along this afternoon. Right out this
door here. Takes you directly to the street. Good day, Mr. Frost.
Behave yourself, now. Good day."