Long before the sun came creeping up beyond Mt. Diablo, Dan Pritchard
made the discovery that the man who has too many things to think about
cannot devote constructive thought to any of them. After being the
innocent cause of more discomfort than Dan had thought it possible for
any man to experience in a single evening, Tamea had swept from his
heart in a moment a feeling of resentment, or irritation, that had been
developing there. Her tender little speech, evidencing as it did the
essential nobility of her primitive soul, had surrounded the girl, in
Dan’s eyes, with a newer, more distinctive charm, and rendered more
distressing the prospect of the impending parting. For all the
embarrassment she had caused him in Maisie’s presence, Dan realized that
Tamea was not _gauche_, that she possessed in full measure a
characteristic rather uncommon among her white sisters, and that was
sportsmanship.
Tamea fought in the open; she was above a mean, small, underhanded
action. Notwithstanding the fact that Tamea’s calm announcement to her
rival that Dan was her man had caused him to yearn for a hole into which
he might disappear, effectually dragging the aperture in after him, Dan
had a hearty man’s hearty appreciation of her frankness, her simplicity,
her utter lack of dissembling, of feminine guile. He entertained a
similar feeling of admiration for Maisie, in whom the exigencies of this
peculiar situation had developed similar characteristics. And lastly, he
was sensible of a little titillation to his masculine vanity in the
knowledge that two glorious women desired him, that they were engaged in
a battle of wits and charm to win him.
He was, on the whole, however, very uncomfortable and apprehensive of
unfortunate developments. Mellenger, beloved pal of his boyhood and
steadfast friend of his mature years, had read him truthfully and then
told him that which he had read. Dan was unwilling to believe that
Mellenger had read him aright yet he had lacked the courage to deny it.
What a keen fellow Mark Mellenger was! How prudent, farseeing and
fearless! And how charitable, how thoroughly understanding! Dear old
Mel! He hadn’t gotten ahead in life. His one great ambition had failed
dismally of realization, and he had had to content himself with second
place; nevertheless he was not embittered. His life was taken up with
doing well the task he could do so much better than others; no hint of
the sadness of unfulfilled dreams ever escaped him, and until tonight
Dan had never seen him excited or distressed about anything.
“The old boy has a tremendous affection for me,” Dan meditated as he got
out of bed, donned dressing gown and slippers and sat by the window to
watch the sun rise over San Francisco bay. “What a blow it would be to
him were I to—but of course I shall not. The idea is unthinkable.”
Gradually his mind turned to thoughts of business, to the increasing
annoyance of association with old John Casson, to the rice market. He
would call upon Ridley, the rice broker, and put pressure behind the
selling drive if Ridley failed to render an encouraging report by noon.
Once in the clear on those rice deals, he was resolved to do one of two
things—buy John Casson out or force Casson to buy him out.
And then there was the accursed question of what to do with Tamea. That
also would have to be solved today.
At seven o’clock he heard Sooey Wan puttering about in the kitchen
below, so he shaved, bathed, dressed and descended for an early
breakfast. Sooey Wan served him in profound silence, but eyed him with a
steady, speculative gaze; from time to time he shook his old head as if
he, too, wrestled with problems hard to solve. When Dan left the house
Sooey Wan accompanied him into the hall, helped him into his overcoat
and handed him hat and stick. Then he voiced something of what was on
his mind.
“Boss, how soon you mally Captain’s girl?”
“How dare you ask me such a question? Mind your own business, you
grinning old idol, or I’ll fire you one of these bright days. I’m not
going to marry the Captain’s girl.”
Sooey Wan did not seem to be impressed. “Helluva house you ketchum,
boss, you fire Sooey Wan. Allee time you makee too much talkee-talk.
Talk velly cheap, but ketchum money you likee buy whisky. You no mally
Captain’s girl, eh? Well, when you mally Missie Maisie?”
“I don’t know. Why do you ask?”
Sooey Wan rubbed his corrugated brow and scowled in huge despair. “Go
’long, boy, go ’long,” he entreated wearily. “Allee time you makee Sooey
Wan sick. Why I ask? Wha’s mallah? You no wanchee ketchum little
baby—ketchum fi’, six son?”
“I haven’t thought about it,” Dan growled.
“Hully up. Thinkee quick!” Sooey Wan entreated. “Pitty soon if you no
thinkee, evelything go blooey-blooey. Sooey Wan talkee Captain’s girl,
she tellee me pitty soon ketchum my boss for mally. Now you say no
ketchum. Wha’s mallah? You thinkee make fool of Sooey Wan? Listen, boy.
When Captain’s girl say ketchum boss, then Sooey Wan bettee bankroll on
Captain’s girl. She ketch you, sure. Oh-h-h, velly nice!”
Dan slammed the door in Sooey Wan’s face and hastened down the street.
It was an hour’s walk to his office and his head ached from too much
thinking. The exercise would do him good.
He purchased the morning papers and looked through them for Tamea’s
picture and the story of her arrival, of her father’s dramatic death.
Mellenger, for some unknown reason, had not featured his story as Dan
had expected. It was a short straight news story, on the second page,
with a very good picture of Tamea, and Dan noted that Mellenger had said
nothing of the fact that he was to be Tamea’s guardian, that she was a
guest at his home. The other paper had handled the story more
flamboyantly and featured it on the first page, but with an eye single
to local color the editor had run the photograph of Tamea in the Mother
Hubbard dress.
“Brainless apes,” Dan growled. “Makes her look like a colored mammy. I
hate them.”
Arrived at his office, he had scarcely read his mail before Ridley, the
rice broker, called him up.
“I can unload that four thousand tons at Shanghai for cash,” he
announced, “but the price I can get will not leave you much of a
profit.”
“How much?”
“Fourteen cents, at ships’ tackles, Shanghai.”
Dan figured rapidly while Ridley held the wire. The price quoted would
net his firm a profit of about eight thousand dollars. “Sold!” he cried
triumphantly.
By noon the deal had been definitely closed with Ridley’s client, the
space contracted for on the Malayan transferred to the new owner of the
rice, and the check in payment deposited in bank. Dan’s mental
thermometer commenced to rise, so he decided to accord himself the
delight of breaking the news to old Casson.
The senior partner’s face darkened with fury. “You’ve cost us a
potential profit of a quarter of a million dollars, Pritchard. I suppose
you realize that this confounded interference of yours means the end of
our business association.”
“I hope so. Thank you, I wouldn’t care for another helping of the
mustard. Do you propose buying me out or selling out to me?”
“I would prefer to buy you out—today—and carry those rice deals
myself.”
“Unfortunately, the sale of my interest here will not invalidate my
signature on some of this firm’s paper, Mr. Casson.”
“That might be arranged somehow. What do you want for your interest?”
Dan named a figure and old Casson nodded approval.
“Terms?” he queried.
“Cash.”
“Impossible.”
“Well, then, fifty thousand in cash and the balance on secured notes.”
“Impossible.”
“I had a suspicion you have dissipated in crazy deals most of your share
of the money we made during the war. Well, it appears you cannot buy me
out, and until our rice deals have been safely disposed of, if not at a
profit at least without loss, I do not yearn to take over your share. It
might prove a very bad investment. However, for reasons which would
never occur to you, I am willing, once the rice deals have been disposed
of, to buy you out on a basis of the actual value of our assets, but
with nothing additional for good-will. All the good-will value of Casson
and Pritchard has been created by my father and myself.”
“I shall not sell on that basis.”
“Very well. The day on which our last note is paid I am relieved of all
contingent liability as a partner in Casson and Pritchard. We will
dissolve partnership. That will kill your credit with our bankers and I
shall sit calmly by and watch you go to smash. When you’ve had your
beating, sir, you will be glad to sell—at my terms. I am generous now.
You may be sure I shall not be generous then.”
Old Casson glowered, puffed at his cigar and then studied the ash
reflectively.
“While you were busy this morning unloading that Shanghai rice at a
paltry eight thousand dollars profit—just because you lack the courage
of a jack-rabbit—I disposed of the Manila rice at the market.”
“To whom?”
“Katsuma and Company.”
“Japs, eh?”
“They’re good.”
“Financial rating is unquestionably splendid. Know anything about the
moral rating of a Japanese business firm?”
“They’ve always met their business obligations.”
“Any Jap will—until the meeting of them becomes burdensome or
unprofitable. Ninety day paper, I suppose.”
Casson smiled triumphantly. “No, not with Katsuma and Company. Sight
draft against bill of lading, payable at the Philippine National Bank.”
“Well, that’s better than I had expected. Unfortunately the cargo has to
be loaded aboard ship before that draft will be cashable. That means
thirty days of suspense—and I do not like the financial aspect in the
East. Prices _must_ come down—and once they start downward they may
develop into an economic avalanche. It’s an unhealthy situation and I
don’t like it. Where’s your contract with Katsuma and Company?”
Casson handed it to him and Dan scanned it carefully, nodded his
approval, rang for the chief clerk and gave the contract to him to be
placed in the safe.
“Well, on the face of things, we’re out of the rice market,” he said as
he rose to return to his own office. “I feel much relieved.”
In his private office he found Mark Mellenger waiting for him. “Well,
you bird of ill omen,” Dan greeted him cheerily, “what brings you here?”
“Had an hour to kill and thought I’d kill it here. I do not go on duty
until one thirty. Dan, I’ve been thinking. What, if anything, have you
decided in the matter of the girl, Tamea?”
“Nothing, Mel. I’ve been too busy on something else.”
“It would be well to make Tamea’s matter a special order of business.
Have you thought of anything to do?”
“Not a thing.”
“I suspected that might be the case. The fact is that you are being
ruled by your subconscious mind. You do not wish to do anything.
However, you shall. I have a plan.”
“Indeed?”
“None of your sarcasm. Not that it will avail you anything. It’s just
futile—wasted energy—on me. You must induce Maisie Morrison to take
Tamea to Del Monte for a couple of weeks.”
“My dear man, why should I ask Maisie to burden herself with such a
responsibility?”
“Well, it _is_ selfish, I admit, but then if one would make an omelette
one must break eggs. Maisie will regard it as a burden and she will
appreciate to the fullest your cussedness in asking her, but she will
accept the nomination gracefully—indeed, I am moved to
add—gratefully.”
“How do you know she will?”
“Don’t know. I’m merely guessing. I guessed her right last night, did I
not?. . . Yes, I’m not half bad at guessing things.”
“But something tells me there is mutual hostility between Maisie and
Tamea. They disliked each other at sight.”
“Quite true. But then women who despise each other for a reason which
may not be discussed will never admit that they despise each other. And
Maisie will subjugate her very natural desire to spank Tamea if she
realizes that by so doing she will be enabled to thwart Tamea in the
latter’s campaign for your affection. It occurs to me, therefore——”
“You mean that Maisie will eagerly grasp the opportunity to take Tamea
out of my presence and keep her out?”
“Dan, you poor moon-calf, you’re growing brilliant. You’re beginning to
do some head-work. Answering your question, I would say that such is my
interpretation of what will be her mental attitude.”
“Women are so queer,” Dan declared helplessly.
“Women study the essentials which most men overlook, to wit, cause and
effect. The adverb _why_ was invented for the use of women. They always
want to know. When they have a battle on they use their heads to think
continuously of the enemy. They do not forget him or ignore him or
underestimate him—I mean her.”
“Old cynic!”
“Not at all. That’s sound argument based on observation. A smart woman
never forgets that her opponent is extremely likely to act with
discretion.”
“Well?”
“I think you ought to ask Maisie and her aunt to be your guests at Del
Monte for a few weeks, and explain to Maisie that you will take it
kindly of her to look after Tamea. Be sure to inform her that while you
will drive down with them and spend the week-end, you will motor home on
Monday—and stay at home thereafter. You see, Dan,” Mellenger continued,
“there will be much to divert and interest Tamea down there. She can
ride, and if she cannot ride she can spend her time learning. Same thing
with golf. She can swim—and I dare say she’ll be the sensation of the
beach. Lots of good looking, idle gents down there to take her mind off
you, and with Maisie and her aunt to chaperon her, and Julia to help
steer her straight, you stand a very fair chance of forgetting her, of
having her forget you.”
“That is a very good plan. After a few weeks there I will have her
school arrangements made. Then I’ll have a talk with her, tell her
exactly what I want, and that I am going away on a trip to Europe and
that she must be a very good, obedient girl while I am away.”
“But—are you really going to Europe?”
“I am. In about thirty days I’m going to sell out to old Casson, or buy
him out. If the former, I’ll be free to go. If the latter, I’ll appoint
a manager and go abroad anyway.”
“The day you get Tamea into a convent—and that’s where she belongs—you
are to marry Maisie Morrison and take her to Europe with you. I’ll keep
an eye on Tamea for you.
“No risk, I assure you. I have a pachydermous hide which her glances may
not penetrate. Besides, I’ve always been singularly intrigued with the
idea that one of these bright days I may marry some fine woman and
father some blue-eyed, flaxen-haired children.”
“You old-fashioned devil!”
“Do not seek with specious compliments to swerve my single-track mind
from your _affaire de cœur_. It is understood, then, that you are
committed to my plan?”
“Absolutely.”
“Fine! Telephone Maisie at once.”
Dan hesitated, so Mellenger pressed the push-button that summoned Dan’s
secretary. “Please get Miss Morrison on the telephone for Mr.
Pritchard,” he requested.
Maisie was at home and to Dan’s suggestion she agreed—not with
enthusiasm, but upon the ground of obliging him, of helping him out of a
distressing situation. Mellenger, listening to Dan’s replies, managed to
patch together a very fair résumé of their conversation, and grinned
openly.
“Told you I was a good hand at guessing,” he bragged. “Ah, that’s a
smart girl, that Maisie. She’s a diplomat. Got tact—rarest feminine
gift. Before you hang up I should like to speak to her.”
There was a wait of a few minutes while Maisie urged her aunt to agree
to chaperon the party. Presently Maisie called back to say that Mrs.
Casson, having communicated by telephone with her husband, would be
delighted to accept.
“Falls in with old Casson’s mood very nicely,” Dan soliloquized. “He’s
morose and sulky and prefers to be alone.” To Maisie: “Mel is in my
office, Maisie. He wishes to say a word to you.”
“Miss Maisie,” Mellenger announced, “I’ve taken on a new job.”
“Indeed?”
“I’m managing Dan Pritchard. The man is bewildered and doesn’t know how
to manage himself. He’s afraid to act with force and decision at home,
although down in the office he never hesitates to crack the whip.”
“I know. Dan is so tender-hearted. He’s afraid his passion-flower will
droop and die if he exercises the least bit of authority. If his true
friends do not organize——”
“Exactly, Miss Maisie, exactly. You start for Del Monte at two o’clock
this afternoon, in Dan’s car. You will arrive in time for dinner. Your
trunks will follow by express.”
“Are you giving orders, Mel?”
“I am.”
“I hear you and I obey. Good-by. Thank you.”
Mellenger hung up and faced Dan. “Go home and get ready, but before you
leave this office, telephone Julia and start her packing.”
“You’re a fast worker.”
“I know a faster one,” Mellenger retorted significantly.