In his office in the suite of Casson and Pritchard, on the top floor of
a building in the heart of San Francisco’s financial district, Daniel
Pritchard, the junior partner, sat with his back to his desk and his
feet on the sill of a window that gave a view, across the roofs of the
city, to the bay beyond. He was watching the ferryboats ply backward and
forward between the old gray town and Oakland; viewed from that height
and distance their foamy wakes held for him a subconscious fascination.
Indeed, whenever he desired to indulge a habit of day-dreaming, the view
from his window on a clear, warm day could quickly lull him into that
state of mind. This morning Dan Pritchard was day-dreaming.
A buzzer sounding at his elbow aroused him. He reached for the
inter-office telephone and murmured “Yes?” in the low-pitched, kindly,
reassuring voice that is inseparable from men of studious habits and
placid dispositions.
“The Moorea is passing in, Mr. Pritchard. The Merchants’ Exchange
lookout has just telephoned,” his secretary informed him.
“Thank you.” He glanced at his desk clock. “She should clear quarantine
and the Customs before noon, and Captain Larrieau should report in by
one o’clock at the latest. You’ll recognize him immediately, Miss
Mather. A perfectly tremendous fellow with a huge black beard a foot
long. When he arrives show him in at once, please. Meanwhile I’m not in
to anybody else.”
He resumed his day-dreaming, drawing long blissful drafts from a
pleasant smelling pipe, his mind in a state of absolute quiescence in so
far as business was concerned. He had that sort of control over himself;
a control that rested him mentally and armed his nerves against the
attrition that comes of the high mental pressure under which modern
American business men so frequently operate.
At twelve-fifteen Miss Mather entered.
“The Meiggs Wharf office of the Merchants’ Exchange telephoned that the
Moorea has been given pratique, but that Captain Larrieau is ill and the
health officer is going to have him removed to the quarantine station at
Angel Island,” she informed him. “Evidently his disease is not
contagious, because the health officer said it would be quite safe for
you to visit him. The Captain requests that you come aboard at your
earliest convenience and that you bring an attorney and some flowers.”
Dan Pritchard’s eyebrows went up. “That request is suggestive of
approaching dissolution, Miss Mather.”
“Scarcely, Mr. Pritchard. If that were the case would the Captain not
have requested the attendance of your doctor to confirm the health
officer’s diagnosis? And would he not have sent for a clergyman?”
“Not that great pagan! His approach to death would be marked by an
active scientific curiosity in the matter up to the moment when his mind
should cease to function. Please telephone Mr. Henderson, of Page and
Henderson, our attorneys, and ascertain what hour will be convenient for
him to accompany me to the Moorea.”
“I have already done so, Mr. Pritchard. Mr. Henderson is playing in a
golf tournament at Ingleside and will be finished about three o’clock.
He is in the club-house now and says he can meet you at Meiggs Wharf at
four o’clock, provided the matter cannot go over until tomorrow
morning.”
“It cannot. Old Gaston of the Beard is an impatient man, and this is an
urgent call. Please telephone Mr. Henderson that I will meet him at
Meiggs Wharf at four o’clock. Then telephone Crowley’s boathouse to have
a launch waiting there for us at five o’clock. When you have done that,
Miss Mather, you might close up shop and enjoy your Saturday afternoon
freedom.”
“Thank you, Mr. Pritchard. Miss Morrison is in Mr. Casson’s office. She
said she might look in on you a little later.”
When his secretary had departed he resumed his reverie, to be roused
from it at twelve-thirty o’clock by the soft click of the latch as his
office door was gently opened. He turned and observed a girl who stood
in the general office, with her head and one shoulder thrust into Dan’s
office.
“May I come in?” she queried.
“Of course you may, Maisie. You’re as welcome as a gale in the doldrums.
The best seat in my office isn’t half worthy of you.” He rose and took
her hand as she advanced into the room.
“Doing a little ground and lofty dreaming, I observe.” The girl—her
name was Maisie Morrison, and she was the niece of Casson, the senior
member of the firm—seated herself in a swivel desk chair and looked
brightly up at him as he stood before her, his somewhat long grave face
alight with approval and welcome.
“It’s very nice of you to pay me this little visit, Maisie,” he
declared. “And I like that hat you’re wearing. Indeed, I don’t think I
have ever seen you looking more—er—lookable!”
It was like him to ignore her implied query and voice the thought in his
mind.
“Sit down, Abraham Lincoln, do, please,” she urged.
He obeyed. “Why do you call me Abraham Lincoln?”
“Oh, you’re so long and loose-jointed and raw-boned and lantern-jawed!
Your shoulders are bowed just a little, as if from bearing great
burdens, and when I caught a glimpse of your face, as I entered, it was
in repose and incredibly sad and wistful. Really, Dan, you’re a very
plain man and very dolorous until you smile, and then you’re easy to
look at. Your right eyebrow is about a quarter of an inch higher than
your left and that lends whimsicality to your smile, even when you are
feeling far from whimsical.”
His chin sank low on his breast and he appeared to be pondering
something. “Perhaps,” he said aloud, but addressing himself
nevertheless, “it’s spring fever. But then I have it in the summer,
autumn and winter also. I want to go away. Where, I do not know.”
“Perhaps you are suffering from what soul analysts call ‘the divine
unrest.’”
“I’m suffering from the friction that comes to a square peg in a round
hole. That much I know. The round hole I refer to is the world of
business, and I’m the square peg. The situation is truly horrible,
Maisie, because the world believes I fit into that hole perfectly. But I
know I do not.”
Her calm glance rested on him critically but not sympathetically. In
common with the majority of her sex she believed that men are prone to
conjure profound pity for themselves over trifles, and her alert mind,
which was naturally disposed toward practicalities, told her that Daniel
Pritchard had, doubtless, been up too late the night previous and had
eaten something indigestible.
“This is an interesting and hitherto unsuspected condition, Dan. I have
always been told, and believed, that you are a particularly brilliant
business man.”
“I am not,” he objected, with some vehemence. “But if I am, that is
because I work mighty hard to be efficient at a disgusting trade. I know
I am regarded as being far from a commercial dud, for I am a director in
a bank, a director in a tugboat company, and really the managing partner
of Casson and Pritchard. But I loathe it all. Consider, Maisie, the
monstrous depravity of dedicating all of one’s waking hours to the mere
making of money. Why, if any man of ordinary intelligence and prudence
will do that for a lifetime he just can’t help leaving a fortune for his
heirs to squabble over. Making money isn’t a difficult task. On the
other hand, painting a great picture is, and if one’s task isn’t
difficult and above the commonplace, how is one to enjoy it?”
“I was right,” the girl declared triumphantly. “It is the divine unrest.
You are possessed of a creative instinct which is being stifled. It
requires elbow room.”
He smiled an embarrassed little smile. “Perhaps,” he admitted. “I like
to work with my hands as well as with my head. I think I could have been
happy as a surgeon, slicing wens and warts and things out of people, and
I could have been happiest of all if I had nothing to do except paint
pictures. If I could afford it I would devote my life to an attempt to
paint a better picture of Mount Tamalpais yonder, with the late
afternoon sun upon it, than did Thad Walsh. And I do not think that is
possible.”
“That picture yonder,” she said, pointing to an oil on the wall of his
office, “indicates that you have excellent judgment. What is the
subject, Dan?”
“Blossom time in the Santa Clara Valley.”
“It’s a beautiful thing and much too fine for a business office.”
His face, on the instant, was alight with happiness. “Now, I’m glad to
have you say that, Maisie, because _I_ painted that picture.”
“No!”
“Yes.”
“But you never told us——”
“My dear Maisie, you must never breathe a word of this to anybody. If
the world of business had discovered ten years ago that I would rather
dabble in paint and oil than figure interest, it would not now be
regarding me as a capable, conservative business man. I would be that
crazy artist fellow, Pritchard.”
She walked to a point where the best view of the picture was obtainable
and studied it thoughtfully for several minutes.
“It’s very beautiful and the colors are quite natural, I think,” was her
comment. “What do you say it is worth, Dan?”
“Oh, about a million dollars in satisfaction over a good job
accomplished, and fifty or a hundred dollars in the average art shop.”
Maisie returned to her seat. “Well,” she declared with an emphasis and
note of finality in her tone that stamped her as a young woman of
initiative and decision, “if I were as rich as you, Dan Pritchard, I’d
continue to be a square peg in a round hole just long enough to send
that picture home and then walk out of this office forever. How old are
you?”
“Thirty-four, in point of years, but at least a hundred viewed from any
other angle.”
“Fiddlesticks! Why don’t you retire and live your life the way you want
to live it? I would if I were you. . . . Now, Dan, there you go again
with that sad Abraham Lincoln look!”
“I am sad. I’ve just had a great disappointment. I told you I wanted to
go away but that I didn’t know where to go. Well, I did know where I
wanted to go—until this morning. I had planned to take one more cruise
with old Gaston of the Beard——”
“With whom?”
“Captain Gaston Larrieau, master of our South Seas trading schooner
Moorea. I had planned to knock around with him in strange places for the
next six months.”
“I cannot visualize you making a pal of a sea captain, Dan.”
“Nonsense, Maisie. Gaston is a satyr with a soul. Twelve years ago I
took a cruise with him and I’ve never had time for another. Gaston of
the Beard—my father dubbed him that thirty years ago and the name has
stuck to him ever since—is like no other man living. He’s about sixty
years old now, six feet six inches tall, and weighs about two hundred
and fifty pounds in condition. He’s a Breton sailor with the blood of
Vikings in him, and if I ever find the tailor who makes his clothes I’m
going to pension the man in order to remove a monster from the sartorial
world. When going ashore in a temperate climate Gaston affects very wide
trousers, a long black Prince Albert coat, a top silk hat, vintage of
1880, and a stiff white linen shirt with round detachable cuffs bearing
tremendous moss-agate cuff buttons. When he walks he waddles like a bear
and when I walk with him I run.
“He is most positive in his likes and dislikes; he has read everything
and remembers it; he plays every card game anybody ever heard of and
plays them all well; he performs very well on the accordion, the flute
and the French horn; he knows music and the history of music. He speaks
four or five European languages and a dozen South Seas dialects. He is a
sinful man, but none of his sins are secret. He loathes swanks, frauds
and pretenders, and he bubbles with temperament. When he is enthusiastic
about anything or when he is angry, his voice rises to a roar; when he
is touched he weeps like a baby. He knows more English poetry than any
man living and is quite as much at home with the best of our modern
literature as he is with all of the ancient classics. He knows all about
ships and shipping since the days of the Phoenicians and the Hanseatic
League; there are as many facets to his character as to a well cut
diamond, and every facet sparkles. Good Lord, Maisie, the man’s
different, and I want a change.”
“Well, then, as I said before, why not have it? You can afford it, Dan.”
“That’s the rub. I cannot. And even if I could I’ve just received word
that Gaston of the Beard is ill with some sort of disease that requires
his removal to quarantine. It must be a very serious illness, because he
has sent for an attorney—to draw his will, doubtless. Henderson and I
are going aboard at four o’clock this afternoon.”
“But why can’t you go for a cruise if and when your satyr recovers his
health?”
“A man cannot drop a business just because he desires to. My going would
disorganize everything and distress a great many people. I’m the binder
that holds this organization together.”
“Don’t take yourself too seriously, Dan. You weren’t born to daddy the
world, you know. You worry too much about other people and what will
happen to them when they can no longer lean against you for support. Why
not give them an opportunity to care for themselves for a change?”
From the tip of her small feet to the cockade on her dainty little hat,
his calm, serious glance roved over her. “Well,” he replied soberly,
“how would you relish the prospect of caring for yourself—for a
change?”
“I’m sure I do not know. I fear I’d be rather helpless—for a while.”
“Do you think I ought to accord your uncle and aunt an opportunity to
care for themselves—for a change?”
“Good gracious, no! Is there a possibility of that situation presenting
itself?”
“An excellent possibility—if I elect to forget that I am a square peg
in a round hole and doomed to remain such.”
“Oh, Dan, I’m so sorry!”
“Sorry for whom?”
“For—everybody.”
The slight hesitation between her words caused him to smile faintly.
Vaguely he had hoped she would feel sorry for him exclusively. Her next
question convinced him that Maisie, in common with the rest of the
world, had a more alert interest in herself than in him.
“Then there is danger, Dan? Something may happen to us?”
“There is a possibility, Maisie. However, I must admit that my feeling
that such a possibility exists is based on nothing tangible. If I leave
the office for a long vacation, this firm will be in the position of a
pugilist who has incautiously left a wide opening for his opponent to
swat him to defeat.”
“Whose fault is it?” said Maisie.
“I do not mean to criticize my partner, Maisie, but if, while I should
be away, we climb out on the end of a limb and then somebody saws off
the limb, the responsibility for our fall will be entirely your Uncle
John Casson’s. The man is an optimist, devoid of mental balance.”
“Have you and Uncle John been quarreling, Dan?”
“No. What good does that do? If mischief is done, quarreling will
neither avert nor cure it. In a business dilemma your uncle always loses
his head, so I practise the gentle art of keeping mine!” He drew a chair
up to her and prepared for a confidential chat. “You must know, Maisie,
that following my entrance into this firm after my father’s death we
have had five narrow escapes from serious financial embarrassment, due
to Mr. Casson’s passion for taking long chances for large profits. And
if five beatings fail to cure a man my opinion is that he is incurable.
Holding that opinion as I do, I fear the result if I leave the office
for more than a month and expose your uncle to temptation.”
“It is kind of you to say that, Dan. Perhaps you have been too gentle
with Uncle John. Perhaps if you had asserted yourself——”
He held up a deprecating hand. “Forgive me, Maisie, if I assure you that
the only way to assert oneself with your avuncular relative is with some
sort of heavy blunt instrument.”
His bluntness caused her to flush faintly, but she kept her temper. “I
believe your father and Uncle John quarreled frequently, Dan.”
“Yes, that is true. But that was not because your uncle is a difficult
man to get along with in the ordinary day to day business. He is a
charming and agreeable old gentleman for whom I entertain a great deal
of respect and affection. My father was undiplomatic, aggressive and
extremely capable. For a quarter of a century he dominated the affairs
of Casson and Pritchard, and before he died he warned me if I should
take his place in the firm to do likewise.” He was silent, looking out
of the window at the ferryboats. “A horrible legacy,” he said. “I loathe
dominating people.”
“Uncle John always resented your father’s domination.”
“I have observed that most people resent that which is good for them.
Since my father’s death your uncle has evinced a disposition to run
hog-wild with power, as the senior member of the firm. The sublimated
old jackass!”
“My uncle is nothing of the sort, Dan Pritchard.”
He disregarded her protest, because he knew she had protested out of a
sense of loyalty to an uncle who had stood in the place of a father to
her since her fifth birthday. And John Casson, he knew, was both kind
and indulgent. But he also knew that Maisie knew her relative was
exactly what Dan Pritchard had called him.
“The first time Mr. Casson disregarded my youth and lack of business
experience and jumped in over his head,” Dan continued, “I hauled him
out by the simple method of disregarding him and insuring all of our
ledger accounts, because one of them was very doubtful. Well, we
collected that insurance and all we were out was the premium. Your uncle
talked of suicide when he thought he had ruined both of us, but when he
discovered I’d saved the firm he accepted about seventy-five per cent of
the credit for my perspicacity. In those days, Maisie, it wasn’t
necessary for us to have a very heavy loss in order to be embarrassed or
ruined. All that saved us the last time was the war, which caught us
with a flock of schooners on long time charters at low freight rates.
“Why, Maisie, I haven’t dared to leave him alone for years. He is no
longer a young man, and his naturally uncertain judgment hasn’t improved
with age. From August, nineteen fourteen, when the Great War began until
April, nineteen seventeen, when this country joined with the Allies, I
admit I gambled. I gambled everything I had and I induced your uncle to
gamble everything he had, and between us we committed Casson and
Pritchard to a point miles in advance of what would, ordinarily, have
been the danger point.
“I am a conservative in business, but I knew then that we were gambling
on a rising market and that we would be safe while the war lasted. Even
during the year and a half I was in the navy and your uncle had a free
hand in the direction of our business, I did not worry. Those were the
days when all radicals made quick fortunes because they just could not
go wrong on charters and the prices of commodities. Three months after
the armistice had been signed I returned to civil life and since then I
have been very busy getting our firm out from under the avalanche of
deflation which must inevitably follow this war, even as it followed the
Civil War. It has not been an easy task, Maisie, for your uncle has
developed a spirit of arrogance and stubbornness difficult to combat.”
“Yes,” Maisie agreed, “Uncle John has acquired a very good opinion of
himself as a business man.”
Pritchard nodded. “Those days when I was in the service and he operated
alone have spoiled him. However, only this morning I succeeded in
gaining his consent—in writing—to the sale, at a nice profit, of the
last of our long-term charters at war rates. Now, if I can hold him in
line until the deflation process commences, I shall be well pleased with
myself.”
“Is the money burning a hole in Uncle’s pocket?”
“I fear it is. He is seventy years old; yet, instead of planning to
retire, he seethes with a desire to double his present fortune. He has
dreams of vast emprise. I wish he had gout instead!”
“Casson and Pritchard is a partnership, Dan. Why do you not incorporate?
Then if the business fails, through any indiscretion of Uncle John, you
will not be responsible for more than your fifty per cent of the
company’s debts.”
“Forty per cent, Maisie. I was admitted to partnership on that basis,
although my father was an equal partner. However, his death terminated
that partnership and I suppose Mr. Casson felt that with my youth and
inexperience forty per cent was generous.”
The girl was silent, gazing abstractedly out of the window. Dan realized
that she was striving to scheme a way out for him, and he smiled in
anticipation of what her plan would be. He was not mistaken.
“Dan,” she said presently, “I believe you are more or less of a thorn in
Uncle John’s side. Why do you not sell out to him, retire and paint
pictures? I feel certain he would be glad to buy you out.”
He sighed. “There are several minor reasons and one major reason why
such a course would be repugnant to me.”
“Name them.”
“Mr. Casson, Mrs. Casson and all of our employees constitute the minor
reasons. You constitute the major one.”
She flushed pleasurably and the lambent light of a great affection
leaped into her fine eyes. He continued:
“I fear the old gentleman would make a mess of the business if my
guiding hand should be withdrawn, and at his age—consider the sheltered
life you have led, the ease and comfort and luxury and freedom from
financial worry! Maisie, it would be a sorry mess, indeed.”
“So you have concluded to hang on, eh, Dan?”
He nodded. “And while hanging on I hang back, like a balky mule on his
halter.”
“‘Go not, like the quarry slave, scourged to his dungeon,’” she quoted
bitterly. “Nevertheless, I fail to see why a nice consideration of
my—of our—comfort should deter you from seeking your own happiness.”
“Why, Maisie, you know very well I’m terribly fond of you.”
“Indeed, Dan! This is the first official knowledge I have had of it,
although, of course, I have for years suspected that you and I were very
dear friends. However, Dan, my friendship is not one that demands great
sacrifices. I—I——”
Tears blurred her eyes and her voice choked, but she recovered her poise
quickly. With averted face she said: “I’m sure, my dear Dan, I would
much prefer to see you painting your pictures than serving as a
sacrifice on the altar of your—of our—friendship.”
“I think I might be able to glean a certain melancholy happiness from
the sacrifice,” he protested.
“Dan Pritchard, you are exasperatingly dull today. I dislike being under
obligation to anybody.”
He held up a deprecating hand. “You know, Maisie, I have always given
you my fullest confidence, as I would to a sister. And I do this in the
belief that you will understand perfectly. My dear girl, I am not
complaining because I have to stick by this business. I am merely
voicing my disappointment at the impossibility of taking the sort of
vacation I had planned. If I——”
A knock sounded on the door, and a moment later John Casson entered. He
was a large, florid old gentleman, groomed to the acme of sartorial and
tonsorial perfection—a handsome old fellow with a hearty and expansive
manner, but a man, nevertheless, whom a keen student of human nature
would instantly deduce to be one who thought rather well of himself.
“What? Dan, my boy, are you still on the job? Maisie, can’t you induce
him to drive to the country club with us? How about nine holes of golf?”
Dan Pritchard shook his head. “Not today, sir, thank you.”
“No? Sorry, my boy. Maisie, are you ready to run along?”
“Yes, Uncle.”
She rose hurriedly, went to the mirror in Dan’s wash cabinet and
powdered her nose. And while powdering it she studied critically the
reflection, in that mirror, of Dan Pritchard’s long, sad, wistful,
thoughtful face. It was in repose now, for Casson had walked to the
window and was looking out over the bay; and Maisie had ample
opportunity to watch Dan and wonder what was going on inside that bent
head.
“Sweet old thing,” she soliloquized. “I love you so. I wonder if you’ll
ever know—if you’ll ever care—if it will ever occur to you, dear
dreamer, to diagnose that warm friendship and discover that it may be
love. For just now, stupid, you talked of sacrifice—for me. Oh, Dan, I
could beat you!”
She crossed the room silently and stood beside his chair. As he started,
politely, to rise, she bent and placed her lips to his ear. “Art is a
jealous mistress. I am told. I hope, Dan, you’ll be as true to her as
you can be. I’m almost jealous of her.”
He glanced meaningly at old Casson, who was beating time with his
fingers on the window-pane and striving to hum a popular fox-trot. “The
old bungler!” Dan whispered. “Come in and visit me the next time you
come to the office. And if you’ll invite me over to dinner some night
next week I shall accept. I want to continue our conversation. I——”
He glanced swiftly at Casson, saw that the old gentleman was still
preoccupied with his pseudo-valuable thoughts and decided to risk
putting through a plan which had that instant popped into his head. He
took Maisie’s chin in thumb and forefinger, drew her swiftly toward him
and kissed her on the lips. Old Casson continued to beat his unmusical
tattoo on the window-pane, and Maisie, observing this, grimaced at his
broad back and—returned Dan’s kiss! For a breathless instant they stood
staring at each other—and then old Casson turned.
“_Au revoir_, Danny dear,” said Maisie in a voice that rang with joy.
“Good-by, Maisie. Good afternoon, Mr. Casson. I hope you’ll enjoy your
game.”
“Thank you, boy. Ta-ta!”
Dan bowed them out of his office and returned to his seat by the window.
“Thunder!” he murmured presently. “Thunder, lightning and a downpour of
frogs and small fishes! Now, what imp put into my silly head that
impulse to kiss Maisie! I’m mighty fond of Maisie, but I’m not at all
certain that I’d care to marry her—she’s so practical and dominating
and lovable. Such a good pal. I wonder if I’d be happy married to
Maisie. . . . I’m a lunatic. When fellows of my mental type marry they
give hostages to fortune, and I haven’t lived yet. My life has been dull
and prosaic—nothing new under heaven—and then I had that impulse—yes,
that was new! That kiss from Maisie was an adventure. It thrilled me. I
wonder what put the idea into my fool head!”
If he had not been fully as stupid as Maisie gave him credit for being,
he would have known that Maisie had put the idea into his head. Being
what he was, however, he went down to Meiggs Wharf at four o’clock to
meet Henderson, still obsessed with the belief that, all unknown to
himself hitherto, he was a singularly daring, devilish and original
character!