When the tip of her cigarette glowed rosy in the pearl-tinted gloom, the
shadowy circle at her feet drew a little nearer.
"This is the story of Valdez," she said. "Listen attentively, you who
hunger!"
* * * * *
On the first day it rained torrents; the light was very dull in the
galleries; fashion kept away. Only a few monomaniacs braved the weather,
left dripping mackintoshes and umbrellas in the coat room, and spent the
dull March morning in mousing about among the priceless treasures on
view to those who had cards of admission. The sale was to take place
three days later. Heikem was the auctioneer.
The collection to be disposed of was the celebrated library of Professor
Octavo de Folio--a small one; but it was composed almost exclusively of
rarities. A million and a half had been refused by the heirs, who
preferred to take chances at auction.
And there were Caxtons, first edition Shakespeares, illuminated
manuscripts, volumes printed privately for various kings and queens,
bound sketch books containing exquisite aquarelles and chalk drawings by
Bargue, Fortuny, Drouais, Boucher, John Downman; there were autographed
monographs in manuscript; priceless order books of revolutionary
generals, private diaries kept by men and women celebrated and notorious
the world over.
But the heirs apparently preferred yachts and automobiles.
The library was displayed in locked glass cases, an attendant seated by
each case, armed with a key and discretionary powers.
From where James White sat beside his particular case, he had a view of
the next case and of the young girl seated beside it.
She was very pretty. No doubt, being out of a job, like himself, she
was glad to take this temporary position. She was so pretty she made his
head ache. Or it might have been the ventilation.
It rained furiously; a steady roar on the glass roof overhead filled the
long and almost empty gallery of Mr. Heikem, the celebrated auctioneer,
with a monotone as dull and incessant as the business voice of that
great man.
Here and there a spectacled old gentleman nosed his way from case to
case, making at intervals cabalistic pencil marks on the margin of his
catalogue--which specimen of compiled literature alone cost five
dollars.
It was a very dull day for James White, and also, apparently, for the
pretty girl in charge of the adjoining case. Nobody even asked either of
them to unlock the cases; and it began to appear to young White that the
books and manuscripts confided to his charge were not by any means the
_chefs-d'oeuvre_ of the collection.
They were a dingy looking lot of books, anyway. He glanced over the
private list furnished him, read the titles, histories and pedigrees of
the volumes, stifled a yawn, fidgetted in his chair, stared at the
rain-battered glass roof overhead, mused lightly upon his misfortunes,
shrugged his broad shoulders, and glanced at the girl across the aisle.
She also was reading her private list. It seemed to bore her.
He looked at her as long as decency permitted, then gazed elsewhere. She
was exceedingly pretty in her way, red haired, white skinned; and her
eyes seemed to be a very lovely Sevres blue. Except in porcelain he
thought he had never seen anything as dainty. He knew perfectly well
that he could very easily fall in love with her. Also he knew he'd never
have the opportunity.
Duller and duller grew the light; louder roared the March rain. Even
monomaniacs no longer came into the galleries, and the half dozen who
had arrived left by luncheon time.
When it was White's turn to go out to lunch, he went to Childs' and
returned in half an hour. Then the girl across the aisle went
out--probably to a similar and sumptuous banquet. She came back very
shortly, reseated herself, and glanced around the empty galleries.
There seemed to be absolutely nothing for anybody to do, except to sit
there and listen to the rain.
White pondered on his late failure in affairs. Recently out of Yale, and
more recently still established in business, he had gone down in the
general slump, lacking sufficient capital to tide him over. His
settlement with his creditors left him with fifteen hundred dollars. He
was now waiting for an opportunity to invest it in an enterprise. He
believed in enterprises. Also, he was firmly convinced that Opportunity
knocked no more than once in a lifetime, and he was always cocking his
ear to catch the first timid rap. It was knocking then but he did not
hear it, for it was no louder than the gentle beating of his red-haired
neighbour's heart.
But Opportunity is a jolly jade. She knocks every little while--but one
must possess good hearing.
Having nothing better to do as he sat there, White drifted into mental
speculation--that being the only sort available.
He dreamed of buying a lot in New York for fifteen hundred dollars and
selling it a few years later for fifty thousand. He had a well developed
imagination; wonderful were the lucky strikes he made in these day
dreams; marvellous the financial returns. He was a very Napoleon of
finance when he was dozing. Many are.
The girl across the aisle also seemed to be immersed in day dreams. Her
Sevres blue eyes had become vague; her listless little hands lay in her
lap unstirring. She was pleasant to look at.
After an hour or so it was plain to White that she had had enough of her
dreams. She sighed very gently, straightened up in her chair, looked at
the rain-swept roof, patted a yawn into modest suppression, and gazed
about her with speculative and engaging eyes.
Then, as though driven to desperation, she turned, looked into the glass
case beside her for a few minutes, and then, fitting her key to the
door, opened it, selected a volume at hazard, and composed herself to
read.
For a while White watched her lazily, but presently with more interest,
as her features gradually grew more animated and her attention seemed to
be concentrated on the book.
As the minutes passed it became plain to White that the girl found the
dingy little volume exceedingly interesting. And after a while she
appeared to be completely absorbed in it; her blue eyes were rivetted on
the pages; her face was flushed, her sensitive lips expressive of the
emotion that seemed to be possessing her more and more.
White wondered what this book might be which she found so breathlessly
interesting. It was small, dingy, bound in warped covers of old
leather, and anything but beautiful. And by and by he caught a glimpse
of the title--"The Journal of Pedro Valdez."
The title, somehow, seemed to be familiar to him; he glanced into his
own case, and after a few minutes' searching he caught sight of another
copy of the same book, dingy, soiled, leather-bound, unlovely.
He looked over his private list until he found it. And this is what he
read concerning it:
_Valdez, Pedro--Journal of. Translated by Thomas Bangs, of
Philadelphia, in 1760. With map. Two copies, much worn and
damaged by water. Several pages missing from each book._
Pedro Valdez was a soldier of fortune serving with Cortez in
Mexico and with De Soto in Florida. Nothing more is known of
him, except that he perished somewhere in the semi-tropical
forests of America.
Thomas Bangs, an Englishman, pretended to have discovered and
translated the journal kept by Valdez. After the journal had
been translated--if, indeed, such a document ever really
existed--Bangs pretended that it was accidentally destroyed.
Bangs' translation and map are considered to be works of pure
imagination. They were published from manuscript after the
death of the author.
Bangs died in St. Augustine of yellow fever, about 1760-61,
while preparing for an exploring expedition into the Florida
wilderness.
Mildly edified, White glanced again at the girl across the aisle, and
was surprised to see how her interest in the volume had altered her
features. Tense, breathless, utterly absorbed in the book, she bent over
the faded print, leaning close, for the sickly light that filtered
through the glass roof scarcely illumined the yellow pages at all.
The curiosity of White was now aroused; he opened the glass case beside
him, fished out his copy of the book, opened it, and began to read.
For the first few minutes his interest was anything but deep: he read
the well-known pages where Bangs recounts how he discovered the journal
of Valdez--and it sounded exceedingly fishy--a rather poorly written
fairy-tale done by a man with little invention and less imagination, so
worn out, hackneyed and trite were the incidents, so obvious the
coincidences.
White shrugged his shoulders and turned from the preface to what
purported to be the translation.
Almost immediately it struck him that this part of the book was not
written by the same man. Here was fluency, elegance of expression,
ease, the simplicity of a soldier who had something to say and but a
short time in which to say it. Even the apparent clumsiness of the
translation had not deformed the work.
Little by little the young man became intensely interested, then
absorbed. And after a while the colour came into his face; he glanced
nervously around him; suppressed excitement made his hands unsteady as
he unfolded the enclosed map.
From time to time he referred to the map as he read; the rain roared on
the glass roof; the light grew dimmer and dimmer.
At five o'clock the galleries closed for the day. And that evening,
sitting in his hall-bedroom, White made up his mind that he must buy
"The Journal of Valdez" if it took every penny that remained to him.
The next day was fair and cold; fashion graced the Octavo de Folio
exhibition; White had no time to re-read any passages or to re-examine
the map, because people were continually asking to see and handle the
books in his case.
Across the aisle he noticed that his pretty neighbour was similarly
occupied. And he was rather glad, because he felt, vaguely, that it was
just as well she did not occupy her time in reading "The Journal of
Valdez." Girls usually have imagination. The book might stir her up as
it had stirred him. And to no purpose.
Also, he was glad that nobody asked to look at the Valdez copy in his
own case. He didn't want people to look at it. There were reasons--among
others, he wanted to buy it himself. He meant to if fifteen hundred
dollars would buy it.
White had not the remotest idea what the book might bring at auction. He
dared not inquire whether the volume was a rare one, dreading even to
call the attention of his fellow employees to it. A word _might_ arouse
their curiosity.
All day long he attended to his duties there, and at five he went home,
highly excited, determined to arrive at the galleries next morning in
time enough to read the book a little before the first of the public
came.
And he did get there very early. The only other employee who had arrived
before him was the red-haired girl. She sat by her case reading "The
Journal of Valdez." Once she looked up at him with calm, clear,
intelligent eyes. He did not see her; he hastily unlocked his case and
drew out the coveted book. Then he sat down and began to devour it. And
so utterly and instantly was he lost amid those yellow, time-faded
pages that he did not even glance across the aisle at his ornamental
neighbour. If he had looked he would have noticed that she also was
buried in "The Journal of Valdez." And it might have made him a trifle
uneasy to see her look from her book to him and from him to the volume
he was perusing so excitedly.
It being the last day that the library was to be on view before the
sale, fashion and monomania rubbed elbows in the Heikem Galleries,
crowding the well known salons morning and afternoon. And all day long
White and his neighbour across the aisle were busy taking out books and
manuscripts for inspection, so that they had no time for luncheon, and
less for Valdez.
And that night they were paid off and dismissed; and the auctioneer and
his corps of assistants took charge.
The sale took place the following morning and afternoon. White drew from
the bank his fifteen hundred dollars, breakfasted on bread and milk, and
went to the galleries more excited than he had ever been before in his
long life of twenty-three years. And that is some time.
It was a long shot at Fortune he meant to take--a really desperate
chance. One throw would settle it--win or lose. And the idea scared him
badly, and he was trembling a little when he took his seat amid the
perfumed gowns of fashion and the white whiskers of high finance, and
the shabby vestments of monomania.
Once or twice he wondered whether he was crazy. Yet, every throb of his
fast-beating heart seemed to summon him to do and dare; and he felt,
without even attempting to explain the feeling to himself, that now at
last Opportunity was loudly rapping at his door, and that if he did not
let her in he would regret it as long as he lived.
As he glanced fearfully about him he caught sight of his pretty
neighbour who had held sway across the aisle. So she, too, had come to
watch the sale! Probably for the excitement of hearing an auctioneer
talk in thousands.
He was a little surprised, nevertheless, for she did not look
bookish--nor even intellectual enough to mar her prettiness. Yet,
wherever she went she would look adorable. He understood that, now.
It was a day of alarms for him, of fears, shocks, and frights
innumerable. With terror he heard the auctioneer talking in terms of
thousands; with horror he witnessed the bids on certain books advance by
thousands at a clip. Five thousand, ten thousand, twenty thousand were
bid, seen, raised, called, hiked, until his head spun and despair
seized him.
What did he know about Valdez? Either volume might bring fifty thousand
dollars for all he knew. Had he fifty thousand he felt, somehow, that he
would have bid it to the last penny for the book. And he came to the
conclusion that he was really crazy. Yet there he sat, glued to his
chair, listening, shuddering, teeth alternately chattering or grimly
locked, while the very air seemed to reek of millions, and the incessant
gabble of the auctioneer drove him almost out of his wits.
Nearer and nearer approached the catalogued numbers of the two copies of
Valdez; pale and desperate he sat there, his heart almost suffocating
him as the moment drew near. And now the time had come; now the
celebrated Mr. Heikem began his suave preliminary chatter; now he was
asking confidently for a bid.
A silence ensued--and whether it was the silence of awe at the priceless
treasure or the silence of indifference White did not know. But after
the auctioneer had again asked for a bid he found his voice and offered
ten dollars. His ears were scarlet when he did it.
"Fifteen," said a sweet but tremulous voice not far from White, and he
looked around in astonishment. It was his red-haired vis-a-vis.
"Twenty!" he retorted, still labouring under his astonishment.
"Twenty-five!" came the same sweet voice.
There was a silence. No other voices said anything. Evidently nobody
wanted Valdez except himself and his red-haired neighbour.
"Thirty!" he called out at the psychological moment.
The girl turned in her chair and looked at him. She seemed to be
unusually pale.
"Thirty-five!" she said, still gazing at White in a frightened sort of
way.
"Forty," he said; rose at the same moment and walked over to where the
girl was sitting.
She looked up at him as he bent over her chair; both were very serious.
"You and I are the only two people bidding," he said. "There are two
copies of the book. Don't bid against me and you can buy in the other
one for next to nothing--judging from the course this one is taking."
"Very well," she said quietly.
A moment later the first copy of Valdez was knocked down to James White.
An indifferent audience paid little attention to the transaction.
Two minutes later the second copy fell to Miss Jean Sandys for five
dollars--there being no other bidder.
White had already left the galleries. Lingering at the entrance he saw
Miss Sandys pass him, and he lifted his hat. The slightest inclination
of her pretty head acknowledged it. The next moment they were lost to
each other's view in the crowded street.
Clutching his battered book to his chest, not even daring to drop it
into his overcoat for fear of pickpockets, the young fellow started up
Broadway at a swinging pace which presently brought him to the offices
of the Florida Spanish Grants Company; and here, at his request, he was
ushered into a private room; a map of Seminole County spread on the
highly polished table before him, and a suave gentleman placed at his
disposal.
"Florida," volunteered the suave gentleman, "is the land of perpetual
sunshine--the land of milk and honey, as it were, the land of the
orange----"
"One moment, please," said White.
"Sir?"
They looked at each other for a second or two, then White smiled:
"I don't want dope," he said pleasantly, "I merely want a few facts--if
your company deals in them."
"Florida," began the suave gentleman, watching the effect of his words,
"is the garden of the world." Then he stopped, discouraged, for White
was grinning at him.
"It won't do," said White amiably.
"No?" queried the suave gentleman, the ghost of a grin on his own smooth
countenance.
"No, it won't do. Now, if you will restrain your very natural enthusiasm
and let me ask a few questions----"
"Go ahead," said the suave gentleman, whose name was Munsell. "But I
don't believe we have anything to suit you in Seminole County."
"Oh, I don't know," returned White coolly, "is it _all_ under water?"
"There are a few shell mounds. The highest is nearly ten inches above
water. We call them hills."
"I might wish to acquire one of those mountain ranges," remarked White
seriously.
After a moment they both laughed.
"Are you in the game yourself?" inquired Mr. Munsell.
"Well, my game is a trifle different."
"Oh. Do you care to be more explicit?"
White shook his head:
"No; what's the use? But I'll say this: it isn't the 'Perpetual Sunshine
and Orange Grove' game, or how to become a millionaire in three years."
"No?" grinned Munsell, lifting his expressive eyebrows.
White bent over the map for a few moments.
"Here," he said carelessly, "is the Spanish Causeway and the Coakachee
River. It's all swamp and jungle, I suppose--although I see you have it
plotted into orange groves, truck gardens, pineapple plantations, and
villas."
Munsell made a last but hopeless effort. "Some day," he began, with
dignity--but White's calm wink discouraged further attempts. Then the
young man tapped with his pencil lots numbered from 200 to 210, slowly,
going over them again for emphasis.
"Are those what you want?" asked Munsell.
"Those are what I want."
"All right. Only I can't give you 210."
"Why not?"
"Yesterday a party took a strip along the Causeway including half of 210
up to 220."
"Can't I get all of 210?"
"I'll ask the party. Where can I address you?"
White stood up. "Have everything ready Tuesday. I'll be in with the
cash."