YOUNG WIX TAKES A HAND IN THE BLACK-EYED
ONE'S GAME
The glowing end of a cigar upon the porch of the adjoining house told
Gilman that young Wix was at home, and, full of his important
enterprise, he stopped in front of the Wix gate to gloat.
"Hello, Gilman," said Wix, sauntering down. "Out pretty late for a
mere infant of twenty-four?"
"Little matter of business," protested Mr. Gilman pompously, glancing
apprehensively at the second-story window, where a shade was already
drawn aside.
"Business!" repeated Wix. "They put midnight business in jail at
daylight."
"Hush!" warned Gilman, with another glance at the window. "This is
different. This is one of those lucky strokes that I have read about
but never hoped would come my way," and enthusiastically, in an
undertone which Wix had to strain to hear, he recited all the details
of the golden opportunity.
It was not so much experience as a natural trend of mind paralleling
Mr. Daw's which made Mr. Wix smile to himself all through this
recital. He seemed to foresee each step in the plan before it was told
him, and, when Mr. Gilman was through, the only point about which his
friend was at all surprised, or even eager, was the matter of the
three thousand.
"Do you mean to say you can swing that amount?" he demanded.
"I--I think I can," faltered Mr. Gilman. "In fact, I--I'm very sure of
it. Although, of course, that's a secret," he hastily added.
"Where would you get it?" asked Wix incredulously.
"Well, for a sure thing like this, if you must know," said Gilman,
gulping, but speaking with desperately businesslike decision, "I am
sure Mr. Smalley would loan it to me. Although he wouldn't want it
known," he again added quickly. "If you'd speak to him about it he'd
deny it, and might even make me trouble for being so loose-tongued;
so, of course, nobody must know."
"I see," said Wix slowly. "Well, Cliff, you just pass up this tidy
little fortune."
"Pass it up!"
"Yes, let it slide on by. Look on it with scorn. Wriggle your fingers
at it. Let somebody else have that nine thousand dollars clean profit
from the investment of three, all in a couple of days. I'm afraid it
would give you the short-haired paleness to make so much money so
suddenly. Ever hear of that disease? The short-haired paleness comes
from wearing horizontal stripes in a cement room."
For a moment young Gilman pondered this ambiguous reply in silence,
then out of his secret distress he blurted:
"But, Wix, I've _got_ to do something that will bring me in some
money! I've run behind on my wheat trades. I've--I've _got_ to do
something!"
Wix, in the darkness, made a little startled movement, the involuntary
placing of his finger-tips behind his ear; then he answered quietly:
"I told you to keep away from that game. I tried it myself and know
all about it."
"I know, but I did it just the same," answered Gilman.
Wix chuckled.
"Of course you did. You're the woolly breed that keeps bucket-shops
going. I'd like no better lazy life than just to run a bucket-shop and
fill all my buckets with the fleeces of about a dozen of your
bleating kind. It would be easy money."
The front door of the Gilman house opened a little way, and the voice
of a worried woman came out into the night:
"Is that you, Cliffy?"
"Yes, mother," answered Clifford. "Good night, old man. I want to be
sure to see you before I go to the bank in the morning. I want to talk
this thing over with you," and young Gilman hurried into the house.
Wix looked after him as he went in, and stood staring at the glowing
second-story window. Then he suddenly went back up to his own porch
and got his hat. Fifteen minutes later he was at the desk of the Grand
Hotel.
"Mr. Daw," he said to the clerk.
"I think Mr. Daw's probably gone to bed by this time, Wix," the clerk
protested.
"We'll wake him up, then. What's the number of his room? I'll do it
myself."
The clerk grinned.
"If he kicks, you know, Wix, I can't blame you for it. I'll have to
stand it myself."
"He won't kick. What's his room?"
"Number one," and again the clerk grinned. Nobody ever point-blank
refused young Wix a favor. There was that in his bigness, and in the
very jollity with which he defied life and its pretended gravity,
which opened all doors to him. His breadth of chest had much to do
with it.
"The bridal chamber, eh?" he chuckled. "In that case, send up a bottle
of champagne and charge it to Mr. Daw's account. Yes, I know the bar's
closed, but you have a key. Go dig it out yourself, Joe, and do it in
style."
Unattended, Mr. Wix made his way to room one and pounded on the door.
Mr. Daw, encased in blue pajamas and just on the point of retiring,
opened cautiously, and was quite crestfallen when he recognized his
visitor. Nevertheless, he thawed into instant amiability.
"Glad to see you, old scout," he cried, and shaking hands with Wix,
pulled him into the room. "I felt as if the old homestead was no
longer home when I didn't find you here to-day. Sit down. What'll you
have to drink?"
"Wine, thanks," replied Wix. "They're getting it ready now. I gave
them your order before I came up."
Mr. Daw gasped and batted his eyes, but swallowed quickly and had it
over with.
"You see," explained Wix, as they seated themselves comfortably. "I
thought, since we wouldn't have time for many drinks, that we might
just as well make it a good one. I brought up this timetable. There's
a train leaves for the East at five-thirty-seven this morning, and one
leaves for the West at six-ten. Which are you going to take?"
"Why, neither one," said Daw in some surprise. "I have some business
here."
"Yes," admitted Wix dryly; "I just saw Gilman. Which train are you
taking?"
"Neither, I said," snapped Daw, frowning, "I don't intend to leave
here until I finish my work."
"Oh, yes, you do," Wix informed him. "You're going about the time
Gilman is washing his face for breakfast; and you won't leave any word
for him."
"How do you know so well?" retorted Daw. "Look here, Mr. Wix, this
proposition I'm offering Gilman is a fair and square--"
"You say that again and I'll bite you," interrupted Wix pleasantly.
"I've got a pretty good left-handed punch of my own," flared Daw,
advancing a threatening step.
Wix, though much the larger man, betrayed his touch of physical
cowardice by a fleeting shade of pallor, and moved over next the door.
The Grand Hotel had not installed a room telephone service, still
relying upon the convenient push-button. To this, Wix, affecting to
treat the entire incident as a joke, called attention.
"One ring, ice water," he read from the printed card above it; "two
rings, bell boy; three rings, maid. I think about six rings will bring
the clerk, the porter and the fire department," he observed; "but I
don't see where we need them in a quiet little business talk like
ours."
"Oh, I see!" said Daw in the sudden flood of a great white light, and
he smiled most amiably. "I promised you a rake-off when I spoke about
this on the train, didn't I? And, of course, I'm willing to stick with
it. If I pull this across there's a thousand in it for you."
"No. It won't do," said Wix, shaking his head.
"Say fifteen hundred, then."
Once more Wix shook his head. He, also, smiled most amiably.
"I guess you want it all?" charged Daw with a sneer.
"Possibly," admitted Wix, then suddenly he chuckled so that his big
shoulders heaved. "To tell you the truth," he stated, "I didn't know
Gilman could put up so big a prize as all that nice money, or he
wouldn't have had it loose to offer you by now. As soon as I get over
the shock I'll know what to do about it. Just now, all I know is that
he's not going into this real silky little joke of yours. I don't want
to see the money go out of town."
"I saw it first," Daw reminded him. "I don't care where he gets it,
you know, just so I get it."
"Wherever he gets it," said Wix impressively, "it will be secured in a
perfectly legitimate manner. I want you to understand that much."
"Oh, yes, I understood that, anyhow," acknowledged Daw, and the two
young men looked quite steadily into each other's eyes, each knowing
what the other thought, but refusing to admit it.
It was Daw who first broke the ensuing silence.
"Suppose I can't decide to wing my onward way?" he suggested.
"Then I'll have you looking out on court-house square through the big
grill."
"On what charge?"
"General principles," chuckled Wix.
"I suppose there's a heavy stretch for that if they prove it on me,"
returned Daw thoughtfully. There was no levity whatever in the reply.
He had read the eyes of Wix correctly. Wix would have him arrested as
sure as breakfast, dinner and supper.
"Just general principles," repeated Wix; "to be followed by a general
investigation. Can you stand it?"
"I should say I can," asserted Daw. "What time did you say that train
leaves? The one going east, I mean."
"Five-thirty-seven."
"Then, if you don't mind, you may leave me a call for five o'clock;"
and Mr. Daw nonchalantly yawned.
There came a knock at the door.
"I'm sorry you have to leave us so soon, Mr. Daw," said Wix, admitting
the clerk with the wine, and speaking with much regret in his tone.
"I'll clink glasses with you, anyhow, old sport," offered Daw,
accepting the inevitable gracefully, after the clerk had gone. "I
don't know what your game is, but here's to it! Always remember,
though, that I located this three thousand for you. I hate to leave it
here. It was such easy money."
"Easy money!" Again that phrase rang in the ears of young Wix, as he
walked home, as he stood at his gate looking over at the second-story
window of the Gilman house, and as he lay upon his pillow. To dwell in
perpetual ease, to be surrounded with endless luxury, to spend money
prodigally in all the glitter and pomp of the places that had been
built at the demand of extravagance: these things had become an
obsession with him--yet, for them, he was not willing to work and
wait.
Gilman felt that he had lost vast estates, when, upon calling at the
hotel in the morning, he found that Mr. Daw had left upon an early
train. He was worried, too, that he had not been able to see Wix
before he started down-town. Most opportunely, however, Wix sauntered
out of Sam Glidden's cigar store, opposite the hotel, as Gilman
emerged upon the street.
"When's the funeral?" asked Wix. "You look like a sick-headache
feels."
"Daw has gone, and without leaving me any word," quavered Gilman. "I
suppose he'll--he'll probably write to me, though."
"I'm betting that he has writer's cramp every time he tries it,"
asserted Wix.
"But I signed an agreement with him last night. He must write."
"Does this look anything like that agreement," asked Wix, and from his
pocket drew the document, torn once across each way. Gilman gazed at
the pieces blankly. "I got it away from him, and tore it up myself,
last night," continued Wix. "Also, I ran the gentleman out of town on
the five-thirty-seven this morning, headed due east and still going."
"What do you mean?" gasped Gilman. "Why, man, you've taken away the
only chance I had to get even. I _have_ to make money, I tell you!"
"Be calm, little Cliffy," admonished Wix soothingly. "I'm going to get
it its money. Look here, Gilman, this man was a fake and I made him
say so, but his coming here gave me an idea. I'm going to open a
bucket-shop, and you're going to back it."
"Not a bucket-shop!" objected Gilman, aghast at the very name.
"Yes, a bucket-shop. Do you know how they operate? Of course not,
merely having played against them. Well, suppose you gamble a thousand
bushels of wheat on a two-cent margin, holding for a two-cent advance.
What happens to your twenty dollars? The bucket expert takes out his
buying commission of one-fourth cent a bushel. A straight broker
takes off one-eighth cent, but your man milks you for a nifty little
total of two dollars and a half, because you're a piker. If wheat goes
down one and three-fourths cents you lose the other seventeen-fifty,
don't you?"
"Yes," admitted Gilman.
"If it goes up two cents the man closes the deal and takes out another
one-fourth cent a bushel for closing. That's another two-fifty. You
get back thirty-five dollars. Your bucket-shop man is practically
betting fifteen dollars of his money against twenty of yours on worse
than an even break. Pretty good game for the bucket-shop man, isn't
it? But there's more. He doesn't take as much risk as matching pennies
on a three-to-four shot. Suppose he has one man betting that wheat
will go up and another that it will go down. Each man puts up twenty,
and one must lose. The man with the bucket runs no chances, and every
time he takes in forty dollars he pays out only thirty-five of it.
Twelve and one-half per cent. of all the money that passes through his
hands stays there. Moreover, the winner puts his right back into the
game, and the loser rakes up more, to win back what he lost. Pretty
syrupy, eh? The only trouble with you is that you have been playing
this game from the wrong end. Now, you're going to play it from the
inside. I'm going to rent an office to-day. You're to back me to the
extent of three thousand dollars, and we'll split the profits."
Gilman's eyes glistened. He was one who did his thinking by proxy, and
reflected enthusiasm with vast ease.
"Do you suppose it would take the three thousand all at once?" he
asked with some anxiety.
"No, we won't need it in a lump," Wix decided, after some sharp
thought over Gilman's nervousness; "but it must be where we can get
all or any part of it at a minute's notice."
Gilman drew such an obvious breath of relief that Wix became once more
thoughtful; but it was a thoughtfulness that brought with it only
hardening of the jaw and steeling of the eyes.