Dan left his home with the alacrity of one who seeks escape from a most
uncomfortable situation. As a bachelor he was conscious of the fact that
this morning there had been four women too many in his life. He cringed
from the prospect of having Mrs. Pippy resign his service in a huff. He
hoped she would, under Maisie’s cogent reasoning, consent to make
allowances for Tamea until Maisie should have impressed upon the latter
the fact that in a white democracy a South Sea Island queen was expected
to be seen and not heard.
“Tamea is such a child,” Dan told himself. “And a spoiled child at that.
Old Gaston has permitted her to do exactly as she pleased, and now the
task of correcting that mistake is mine. It isn’t going to be an easy
task, and what’s more I haven’t the slightest idea where to commence and
where to stop. . . . What fragrant hair she has. . . such an appealing
creature. When she weeps she’s just a broken-hearted little girl . . .
makes me want to take her on my knee and soothe her. . . .
“Maisie’s nose went up a trifle the first time the child kissed me, and
there was steel in her voice when she reproved Tamea. Fine state of
affairs if she and Tamea fail to hit it off together and Tamea elects to
use me as a club to hurt Maisie. I have a feeling it would be like her
to try! Come to think of it, most women would! As soon as Tamea has
adjusted herself to her new life, I’ll pack her off to some select
school.”
He picked up the annunciator and ordered Graves to halt alongside the
first newsstand he could find. Thus presently he found himself with half
a dozen magazines, skimming through their advertising pages in search of
some hint of the most advantageous school for girls of Tamea’s sort.
Preferably the school should be situated in the center of a boundless
prairie; as an additional safeguard, it should be surrounded by a very
tall barbed-wire fence or a cactus hedge and sans communication with the
outside world.
By the time Graves had deposited him on the sidewalk before his office
building the problem of the right school was as far from solution as
ever, and a growing resentment against Gaston of the Beard was rising in
Dan’s heart. Down under the Southern Cross the problem of living was an
easy one. Why, then, had Gaston transplanted this girl to a land where
the problem was so complicated—where she was so certain to add to the
complications?
“I feel tremendous events portending,” Dan soliloquized. “The very
foundations of my life are tottering.”
On his desk he found a memorandum from his secretary to the effect that
he was to call Miss Morrison at his home the moment he came in.
“Hello, Dan’l!” Maisie’s voice carried a triumphant note that cheered
him wonderfully. “I merely wanted to relieve your mind of your domestic
worries before you crossed swords with Uncle John. I have had a talk
with Mrs. Pippy and she will remain—for the present at least.”
“I’ll raise her monthly stipend very materially,” he answered
gratefully. “Have you talked to Tamea?”
“No, but I shall, Dan. I realize the precise proportions of the
predicament your generous acceptance of a white man’s burden has placed
you in. So, my dear, I dare say I shall have to stand at thy right hand
and hold the bridge with thee.”
“God bless you for that, Maisie. I think Tamea is a wonderfully
affectionate girl—fiery, but generous, loyal and grateful, but hard to
handle. She must be appealed to through her heart rather than her head.”
“You don’t know anything about it, Dan.” Maisie rather bit that sentence
off short. “That’s her plan for ruling you—via your soft heart and your
softer head. The girl Tamea has brains, she can reason and she can
understand, and the instant she realizes that your words of wisdom are
about to undermine her opposition to your desires, she will make a
flying leap for your manly breast——”
“Do you really think she might develop such a habit?”
“Dan, she’s a fully developed woman——”
“Don’t build me a mare’s nest, Maisie. She’s just a little girl.”
“Have it your way. But I warn you she’s the sort of little girl that a
respectable bachelor cannot afford to have around his house a day longer
than is quite necessary. That sounds catty, Dan, but I know whereof I
speak.”
“Yes, I suppose I’ll have to do something radical and do it quickly,” he
agreed. “Thank you, Maisie—a million thanks.”
“Happy to be of service to you, old boy.”
“Maisie! Will you accord me another favor?”
“Certainly. What is it?”
“Consider yourself duly and affectionately kissed.”
“Oh! Dan, you’re developing a habit. But don’t you think two kisses are
quite sufficient to start the day with?”
“That was a little mean feminine jab, Maisie. Good-by. I’m going to hang
up.”
He did, albeit smiling and much relieved. He could now turn to the task
of standing old John Casson on the latter’s snowy head, so to speak, and
see how much rice would run out of his pockets.
Experience had taught Dan that the best way to handle his partner was to
rough him from the start, for, like all weak and pompous men, Casson was
not superabundantly endowed with courage or the ability to think fast
and clearly under fire. He would fight defensively but never
offensively, and Dan had discovered the great fundamental truth that the
offensive generally wins, the defensive never.
He summoned his secretary. “Miss Mather, please inform Mr. Casson that I
desire to confer with him—in my office—immediately.”
As he had anticipated, old Casson obeyed him without question.
“Well, boy, what have you got on your mind this morning?” he began
genially.
“Rice,” Dan answered curtly. “Sit down.”
Casson walked to the window, looked out over the vista of bay and
commenced thinking as rapidly as he could under the circumstances.
“I told you to sit down,” Dan reminded him crisply. “I mean it. Sit down
and face me. I want to look into your face and smoke the deception out
of it.”
“By the gods of war, I’ll not stand such talk from any man!” Old Casson
had decided to bluster.
Dan glowered at him. “You’ll stand it from me. You’ve got some rice
deals on in this crazy market and you’ve kept the news of your
operations from me. Have you speculated any in coffee or sugar?”
“No, no, Dan. Nothing but rice.”
“What sort of rice have you committed us to—California or Oriental?”
“Both.”
“Playing alone or in a pool?”
“Alone.”
“How much California rice have you purchased?”
“One million sacks.”
“Paid for any of it?”
“Half of it. Balance in sixty days.”
“Where is the rice?”
“Scattered in various warehouses throughout the upper Sacramento
valley.”
“I didn’t notice that our bank account had been particularly depleted
during the month I was in Hawaii. You bought the rice on open credit,
hypothecated the warehouse receipts with various banks, paid for half
the rice with the proceeds and used the remainder of the loan to pyramid
with. I suppose you sunk that in a little jag of Philippine rice.”
“I did,” Casson admitted, flushed and anxious. He had seated himself,
facing Dan.
“Holding your warehoused rice for a rising market, eh?”
“Exactly.”
“Suppose the bottom drops out?”
Casson shrugged and for the first time smiled. “I think, Pritchard,
you’ll have to admit that I’ve put one over on you this time, and what’s
more, you’re going to like it. I bought that California rice at prices
ranging from nine and a quarter to ten and a half cents per pound, and
today it is worth twenty. We stand to clean up a hundred thousand
dollars on that lot alone.”
“We are engaged in legitimate business, not food profiteering. Can you
dispose of that million sacks readily?”
“Had an offer of twenty cents for it this morning.”
“Reliable people?”
“Rated up to five million, A-A-A-one.”
“Cash?”
“No, ninety days.”
“Suspicious. Don’t like ninety-day paper. The banks are beginning to
discriminate in their loans. All over the country there has been a wide
expansion of credit in all lines, due to war-time prosperity, and my
guess is that the demand for credit will soon result in the usual
banking situation. The banks will discover that their loans have so
increased as to be out of proportion to their reserves and deposits; and
if the banks once get frightened, business will be crippled overnight.”
“Pooh, no danger of that for a couple of years yet, Pritchard.”
“On that subject I prefer sounder advice than yours, Mr. Casson. Call up
the people who want that rice and tell them we’re willing to cut our
price considerably if they will pay cash.”
“Sorry, but it can’t be done, my boy. I’ve already traded on a
ninety-day basis. Don’t worry. We’re perfectly safe.”
“With you, the wish is father to the thought. How much Oriental rice
have you bought?”
“We’ve got the British steamer Malayan loading a cargo of eight thousand
tons in Manila, for Havana, Cuba. On or about the middle of next month
the steamer Chinook will load four thousand tons at Shanghai, for
delivery at Havana.”
“Our specialty, of which we have a good, safe, working knowledge, is
South Sea products—mostly copra, and the operation of ships. The
shoemaker should stick to his last. Now, then, listen to my ultimatum.
If the sun sets today and leaves Casson and Pritchard the proprietors of
rice stored anywhere except in our respective kitchens, you and I are
going to dissolve partnership about an hour after the sun rises
tomorrow. And, whether you realize it or not, the moment our partnership
is dissolved, that moment you start tobogganing to ruin.”
Casson rose and stretched himself carelessly. “Oh, well, boy,” he
replied, the patronizing quality of his words driving Dan into a silent
fury, “suppose we leave the crossing of our bridges until we come to
them.”
Dan’s fist smashed down on his desk with a thud that caused old Casson
and the inkwell to jump simultaneously. “We’ll cross our bridges today,”
he roared, “and we’ll start now. Sit down, you consummate old jackass!”
Casson trembled, paled and sat down very abruptly. “My dear Dan, control
yourself,” he stammered.
“I’ll control myself, never fear. My chief job is controlling you. How
dare you commit me to ruin without consulting me?”
“Ruin? Ridiculous! Only a fool would have neglected this golden
opportunity—and I’m the senior member of this firm and a sixty percent
owner in it.” Simulating righteous indignation, Casson too commenced to
pound Dan’s desk.
“No bluffs!” Dan ordered, and took down the intercommunicating office
telephone. The chief clerk responded. “Bring to me immediately all of
the data pertaining to Mr. Casson’s rice operations,” he ordered. He
hung up and faced Casson. “That will be all, Mr. Casson. From this
moment you are out of the rice market and I’m in it. I’ll attend to the
marketing of more rice than this firm is worth.”
“Pritchard, I forbid this!”
“Very well.” Dan reached for his hat. “I’m going up to our banker and
tell him all about your rice deals. A business man should be as frank
with his banker as with his lawyer. You’ll get your orders from the man
higher up. If a loss threatens us, I prefer to have the blow fall now.”
The battle was over. “Oh, have it your own way, my boy!” Casson cried
disgustedly and with a wave of his plump hand absolved himself from any
and all disasters that might overtake the firm.
Half an hour later a well-known rice broker appeared in Dan’s office in
response to the latter’s telephoned request.
“This firm,” Dan announced, “owns eight thousand tons of rice now
loading for Havana, in Manila. It owns four thousand tons due to be
loaded in thirty days at Shanghai. Is that rice quickly salable?”
“How soon do you want it sold?”
“Immediately.”
“Can do—at a price.”
“Do it!” Dan Pritchard commanded. “And if you can dig me up a cash
customer—at a cent or two under the market—I’ll pay you an extra
quarter of one per cent commission.”
“Cash, eh? Well, that’s a bit doubtful. However, that extra commission
will make me work. I’ll report when I have something you can get your
teeth into.”
“May I hope to hear from you today?”
“Scarcely. The market’s a bit off—somewhat sluggish. Trading has been
pretty rapid of late, and the opinion prevails in some quarters that the
market has about reached the point of saturation.”
“Many traders unloading?”
“Oh, no! Everybody is still holding on for a further rise in price,
which I personally believe will come. We’re all optimists in the rice
market.”
“Well, I’m a pessimist, but only because I do not care for rice. I have
never dealt in it before and I don’t know anything about the rice
market. Frankly, I’m closing out some trades of Mr. Casson’s under his
protest. My instructions to you are practically to throw Casson’s trades
overboard in order to get us out of the rice market.”
The broker eyed him keenly. “No necessity for getting stampeded and
breaking the market,” he suggested.
The remainder of that day Dan devoted to Tamea’s business. First he went
to the Appraisers’ Building and declared the pearls which Gaston had
smuggled in on the Moorea. Having paid the duty on them, he called on
the leading jewelers and had them appraised again, after which he added
ten per cent to the appraisal value and sold the entire lot to a
wholesale jeweler for cash. He reasoned, very wisely, that at the height
of a period of such prosperity as the country had not hitherto known,
the selected pearls of Gaston of the Beard would never bring a better
price. He then deposited all of her funds to the credit of “Daniel
Pritchard, guardian of Tamea Oluolu Larrieau, a minor,” in a number of
savings banks. He next called upon his attorney, who drew up, at his
request a formal petition to the Superior Court for letters of
guardianship for Tamea.
Yes, Dan was a practical business man, a slave to the accepted forms. He
was taking his office as Tamea’s guardian so very seriously that his
position was analogous to that of the man who failed to see the woods
because of the trees. It did not occur to him that the administration of
an estate for a minor who knew nothing of the value of money and cared
less, who had never known discipline and who yielded instantly to every
elemental human desire and instinct, might be provocative of much
distress and loss of sleep to him. On the contrary, what he did do was
to return to his office hugely satisfied with the world as at that
moment constituted.