IN WHICH J. RUFUS GIVES HIMSELF THE SURPRISE
OF HIS LIFE
Wallingford had kept his finger carefully upon the pulse of the Bubble
Bank by apparently inconsequential conversations with President
Bubble, and he knew its deposits and its surplus almost to the dollar.
Twice now he had checked out his entire account and borrowed nearly
the face of his bank stock, on short time, against his mere note of
hand, replacing the amounts quickly and at the same time depositing
large sums, which he almost immediately checked out again.
On the Saturday following Blackie Daw's departure all points had been
brought together: the drainage operation had been completed; walls had
been built about the three springs which supplied the swamp; the
foundation of the studio had been completed, and all his workmen paid
off and discharged; and the surplus of the Bubble Bank had reached
approximately its high-water mark.
On Sunday Wallingford, taking dinner with the Bubbles, unrolled a set
of drawings, showing a beautiful Colonial residence which he proposed
to build on vacant property he had that day bought, just east of Jonas
Bubble's home.
"Good!" approved Jonas with a clumsily bantering glance at his
daughter, who colored deliciously. "Going to get married and settle
down?"
"You never can tell," laughed Wallingford. "Whether I do or not,
however, the building of one or several houses like this would be a
good investment, for the highly paid decorators and modelers which the
pottery will employ will pay good rents."
Jonas nodded gravely.
"How easily success comes to men of enterprise and far-sightedness,"
he declared with hearty approbation, in which there was mixed a large
amount of self-complacency; for in thus complimenting Wallingford he
could not but compliment himself.
On Monday Wallingford walked into the Bubble Bank quite confidently.
"Bubble, how much is my balance?" he asked, as he had done several
times before.
Mr. Bubble, smiling, turned to his books.
"Three thousand one hundred and sixty-two dollars and fifty-eight
cents," said he.
"Why, I'm a pauper!" protested Wallingford. "I never could keep track
of my bank balance. Well, that isn't enough. I'll have to borrow
some."
"I guess we can arrange that," said Jonas with friendly, one might
almost say paternal, encouragement. "How much do you want?"
"Well, I'll have to have about forty-five thousand dollars, all told,"
replied Wallingford in an offhand manner.
He had come behind the railing, as he always did. He was leaning at
the end of Mr. Bubble's desk, his hands crossed before him. From
his finger sparkled a big three-carat diamond; from his red-brown
cravat--price three-fifty--sparkled another brilliant white stone
fully as large; an immaculate white waistcoat was upon his broad
chest; from his pocket depended a richly jeweled watch-fob. For
just an instant Jonas Bubble was staggered, and then the recently
imbibed idea of large operations quickly reasserted itself. Why, here
before him stood a commercial Napoleon. Only a week or so before
Wallingford's bank balance had been sixty thousand dollars; at other
times it had been even more, and there had been many intervals
between when his balance had been less than it was now. Here was a man
to whom forty-five thousand dollars meant a mere temporary convenience
in conducting operations of incalculable size. Here was a man who had
already done more to advance the prosperity of Blakeville than any one
other--excepting, of course, himself--in its history. Here was a man
predestined by fate to enormous wealth, and, moreover, one who might
be linked to Mr. Bubble, he hoped and believed, by ties even stronger
than mere business associations.
"Pretty good sum, Wallingford," said he. "We have the money, though,
and I don't see why we shouldn't arrange it. Thirty-day note, I
suppose?"
"Oh, anything you like," said Wallingford carelessly. "Fifteen days
will do just as well, but I suppose you'd rather have the interest for
thirty," and he laughed pleasantly.
"Yes, indeed," Jonas replied, echoing the laugh. "You're just in the
nick of time, though, Wallingford. A month from now we wouldn't have
so much. I'm making arrangements not to have idle capital on hand."
"Idle money always yells at me to put it back into circulation," said
Wallingford, looking about the desk. "Where are your note blanks?"
"Er--right here," replied Mr. Bubble, drawing the pad from a drawer.
"By the way, Wallingford, of course we'll have to arrange the little
matter of securities, and perhaps I'd better see the directors about a
loan of this size."
"Oh, certainly," agreed Wallingford. "As for security, I'll just turn
over to you my bank stock and a holding on the Etruscan property."
For one fleeting instant it flashed across Mr. Bubble's mind that he
had sold this very property to Wallingford for the sum of one thousand
dollars; but a small patch of stony ground which had been worth
absolutely nothing before the finding of gold in it had been known to
become worth a million in a day, as Wallingford had once observed when
looking across the great swamp, and now the mine he had sold to
Wallingford for a song was worth almost any sum that might be named.
Hen Moozer, when consulted, was of that opinion; Jim Ranger was of
that opinion; Bud Hegler was of that opinion; the other directors were
of that opinion; every one in Blakeville was of that opinion; so
Wallingford got his forty-five thousand dollars, and the Bubble Bank
held in return a mortgage on Wallingford's bank stock, and on forty
acres of genuine Etruscan black mud.
"By the way, Mr. Bubble," said Wallingford, tucking the bills of
exchange into his pocket, "I'm going to take a little run into New
York to-day. Would you mind putting the plans for my new house into
the hands of the two contractors here for them to figure on?"
"With pleasure. Hope you have a good trip, my boy."
* * * * *
Well, it was all over, but he was not quite so well satisfied as
he had been over the consummation of certain other dubious deals.
Heretofore he had hugely enjoyed the matching of his sharp wits
against duller ones, had been contemptuous of the people he
out-manoeuvered, had chuckled in huge content over his triumphs; but
in this case there was an obstacle to his perfect enjoyment, and that
obstacle was Fannie Bubble. He was rather impatient about it.
He started early for the train, instructing Bob Ranger to be there to
drive back the bays, and drove around by way of Jonas Bubble's house.
As he was about to hitch his horses the door opened, and Fannie,
dressed for the afternoon, but hatless, came flying out, her head bent
and her hands back over it. She was crying, and was closely pursued by
Mrs. Bubble, who brandished a feather duster, held by the feather end.
Wallingford ran to open the gate as Fannie approached it, closing it
and latching it in time to stop her stepmother.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
"She's a lazy, good-for-nothing, frivolous huzzy!" declared Mrs.
Bubble in hot wrath.
"I've been looking for just that kind," asserted Wallingford. "She'll
do for me. Fannie, get into the buggy. I came down to take you for a
ride to the depot."
"If she goes away from this house she don't come back till she gets
down on her knees and begs my forgiveness!" shrieked the woman.
"If she does that I'll have her sent to a bugitorium," declared
Wallingford. "She don't need to come back here. I'll take care of her
myself. You'll go with me, won't you, Fannie?"
"Anywhere," she said brokenly.
"Then come on."
Turning, he helped her into the buggy and they drove away, followed
by the invectives of Mrs. Bubble. The girl was in a tumult of emotion,
her whole little world clattering down about her ears. Bit by bit her
story came out. It was sordid enough and trivial enough, but to her it
was very real. That afternoon she had planned to go to the country for
ferns with a few girls, and they were to meet at the house of one of
her friends at one o'clock. Her stepmother had known about it three
days in advance, and had given her consent. When the time came,
however, she had suddenly insisted that Fannie stop to wash the
dishes, which would have made her a half-hour late. There followed
protest, argument, flat order and as flat refusal--then the handle of
the feather duster. It was not an unusual occurrence for her
stepmother to slap her, Fannie admitted in her bitterness. Her father,
pompous enough outside, was as wax in the hands of his termagant
second wife, and, though his sympathies were secretly with the girl,
he never dared protect her.
They had driven straight out the west road in the excitement, but
Wallingford, remembering in time his train schedule, made the
straightest _detour_ possible to the depot. He had barely time to buy
his tickets when the train came in, and he hurried Fannie into the
parlor car, her head still in a whirl and her confusion heightened by
the sudden appreciation of the fact that she had no hat. The stop at
Blakeville was but a brief one, and as the train moved away Fannie
looked out of the window and saw upon the platform of the little
depot, as if these people were a part of another world entirely, the
station agent, the old driver of the dilapidated 'bus, Bob Ranger and
others equally a part of her past life, all looking at her in
open-mouthed astonishment. Turning, as the last familiar outpost of
the town slipped by, she timidly reached out her hand and laid it in
that of Wallingford.
The touch of that warm hand laid on his electrified Wallingford. Many
women had loved him, or thought they did, and he had held them in more
or less contempt for it. He had regarded them as an amusement, as toys
to be picked up and discarded at will; but this, somehow, was
different. A sudden and startling resolve came to him, an idea so
novel that he smiled over it musingly for some little time before he
mentioned it.
"By George!" he exclaimed by and by; "I'm going to marry you!"
"Indeed!" she exclaimed in mock surprise, and laughed happily. "The
way you said it sounded so funny."
She was perfectly content.