INTERRUPTED PLANS
Porter had wakened that morning with a pain-racked body and the hot
taste of fever in his mouth. He dressed and went downstairs to
breakfast, but left the table and returned to his room to lie down.
"I'll be all right in an hour or so; I guess I've taken cold," he said
to Evelyn. At the end of an hour he was shaking with a chill.
Evelyn left him alone to telephone for the doctor and in her absence he
tried to rise and fainted. He was still lying on the floor when she
returned. When the doctor came he found the household in a panic, and
almost before Porter realized it, he was hazily watching the white cap
of the trained nurse whom the doctor ordered with his medicines.
"Your father has a fever of some sort," he said to Evelyn. "It may be
only a severe attack of malaria; but it's probably typhoid. In any
event, there's nothing to be alarmed about. Mr. Porter has one of the
old-fashioned constitutions," he added, reassuringly, "and there's
nothing to fear for him."
Porter protested all the morning that he would go to his office after
luncheon, but the temperature line on the nurse's chart climbed steadily
upward. He resented the tyranny of the nurse, who moved about the room
with an air of having been there always, and he was impatient under the
efforts of Evelyn to soothe him. The doctor came again at noon. He was
of Porter's age and an old friend; he dealt frankly with his patient
now. Evelyn stood by and listened, adding her own words of pleading and
cheer; and while the doctor gave instructions to the nurse outside, he
relaxed, and let her smooth his pillow and bathe his hot brow.
"This may be my turn--" he began.
"Not by any manner of means, father," she broke in with a lightness she
did not feel. It moved her greatly to see his weakness.
"It's an unfortunate time," he said, "and there's something you must do
for me. I've got to see Wheaton or Fenton. It's very important."
"But you mustn't, father; business can wait until you're well again. It
will be only a few days--"
"You mustn't question what I ask," he went on very steadily. "It's of
great importance," and she knew that he meant it.
"Can't I see them for you?" she asked. He turned his slight lean body
under the covers, and shook his head helplessly on his pillow.
"You see you can't talk, father," she said very gently. "Is there
anything I can say to them for you?"
"Yes," he said weakly, "I want you to give the key to one of my boxes to
Wheaton. Tell him to take out a package--marked Traction--and give it to
Fenton."
Evelyn brought his key ring and he pointed out the key and watched her
slip it from the ring.
"I'll send for Mr. Wheaton at once," she said. "Don't worry any more
about it, father."
"Evelyn!" She had started for the door, but now hurried back to him.
"Don't tell him anything over the telephone; just ask him to come up."
She went out at once that he might be assured, and he turned wearily on
his pillow and slept.
Porter's illness was proclaimed in the first editions of the afternoon
papers, which Wheaton saw at his desk. News gains force by publication,
and when he read the printed statement that the president of the
Clarkson National Bank was confined to his house by illness, he felt
that Porter must really be very sick; and he naturally turned the fact
over in his mind to see how this might affect him. The directors came in
and sat about in the directors' room with their hats on, and Wingate,
the starch manufacturer, who had seen Porter's doctor, pronounced the
president a very sick man and suggested that Thompson, the invalid
vice-president, ought to be notified. The others acquiesced, and they
prepared a telegram to Thompson at Phoenix, suggesting his immediate
return, if possible.
Wheaton sat with them and listened respectfully. When he was first
appointed to his position, he had waited with a kind of awe for the
pronouncements of the directors; but he had acquired a low opinion of
them. He certainly knew more about the affairs of the bank than any of
them except Porter and he knew more than Porter of the details. During
this informal conference of the directors, Wheaton was called to the
telephone, and was cheered by the sound of Evelyn's voice. She asked him
to come up as soon as convenient; she wished to give him a message from
her father, who was very comfortable, she said. After dinner would do;
she knew that he must be very busy. He expressed his sympathy formally,
and went back to the directors with a kindlier feeling toward the world.
There was a consolation for him in the knowledge that Miss Porter must
summon him to her in this way; her father's illness made another tie
between them.
Wingate and the others came out of the directors' room as he put down
the telephone receiver, and they stood talking at his desk. He found a
secret pleasure in being able to answer at once the questions which
Wingate put to him, as to how the discounts were running, and what they
were carrying of county money, and how much government money they had on
hand. Wingate knew no more of banking than he knew of Egyptian
hieroglyphics; but he thought he did, because he had read the national
banking act through and had once met the comptroller of the currency at
dinner. The other directors listened to Wheaton's answers with
admiration. When they got outside Wingate remarked, as they stood at the
front door before dispersing:
"I wish to thunder I could ask Jim Wheaton something just once that he
didn't know. That fellow knows every balance in the bank, and the date
of the maturity of every loan. He's almost too good to be true."
They laughed.
"I guess Jim's all right," said the wholesale dry goods merchant, who
was a good deal impressed with the fact of his directorship.
"Sure," said Wingate. "But you can bet Thompson's lungs will get a lot
better when he gets our telegram." They had no great belief in
Thompson's invalidism. It is one of the drolleries of our American life
that men, particularly in Western cities, never dare to be ill; it is
much nobler and far more convenient to die than to be sick.
Fenton spent the afternoon in court. He intended to call at the Porters'
on his way home, and stopped at the bank before going to his office,
thinking that the banker might be there; but the president's desk was
closed.
"How sick is Mr. Porter?" he asked Wheaton.
"He's pretty sick," said Wheaton. "It's typhoid fever."
Fenton whistled.
"That's what the doctor calls it. I spoke to Miss Porter over the
telephone a few minutes ago, and she did not seem to be alarmed about
her father. He's very strong, you know."
But Fenton was not listening. "See here, Wheaton," he said suddenly, "do
you know anything about Porter's private affairs?"
"Not very much," said Wheaton guardedly.
"I guess you don't and I guess nobody does, worse luck! You know how
morbidly secretive he is, and how he shies off from publicity,--I
suppose you do," he went on a little grimly. He did not like Wheaton
particularly. "Well, he has some Traction stock,--the annual meeting is
held to-morrow and he's got to be represented."
"He never told me of it," said Wheaton, truthfully.
"His shares are probably in his inside pocket, or hid under the bed at
home; but we've got to get them if he has any, and get them quick. If he
has his wits he'll probably try and send word to me. I suppose I
couldn't see him if I went up."
"Miss Porter telephoned me to come,--on some business matter, she said,
and no doubt that's what it is."
"Then I won't go just now, but I'll see you here as soon as you get down
town. I'll be at my office right after dinner." He paused, deliberating.
Fenton was a careful man, who rose to emergencies.
"I'll come directly back here," said Wheaton. "No doubt the papers you
want are in one of Mr. Porter's private boxes."
"Can you get into it to-night?"
"Yes; it's in the vault where we keep the account books, and there's no
time lock."